


Fractured

by ThreeWhiskeyLunch



Series: Normandy Orthopedics [4]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Character, Bisexual Male Character, Developing Relationship, Doctor AU, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Make up sex, Oral Sex, Piggybacking On Someone Else's AU, Rimming, Slow Burn, So much angst, Voice Kink, sex on the stairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-02 15:12:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 49,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8672248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeWhiskeyLunch/pseuds/ThreeWhiskeyLunch
Summary: In the Midwestern town of Normandy, Zaeed Massani and Steven Hackett are orthopedic doctors working for the private practice, Normandy Orthopedics. Zaeed is still trying to pick up the pieces of his wife's death almost two years ago, but he's drifting in a haze of loneliness and uncertainty. Will he take the second chance Steven offers him, or throw it all away because of pride?





	1. Prologue: All for You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [potionsmaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/potionsmaster/gifts), [Felinafullstop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Felinafullstop/gifts).



> Many many many thanks to potionsmaster for a) allowing me to play in her AU sandbox, and b) sticking through the long process of my writing a first draft before I started posting. This story has been too long in the making and I'm excited to finally start getting it out there. 
> 
> And many many many thanks to felinafullstop for her overwhelming love and support. This is my love song back to you.
> 
> Some of the chapter titles have been inspired by lyrics, so if you see something that looks familiar, that's probably why. I've compiled all the songs on a youtube playlist [ here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLjoUzCkW39GoVnylgMICTiqkBnL6VnT1R). 
> 
> Warning in this chapter for mentions of minor character suicide.

Zaeed Massani loves his wife, Jessie. Loves her far beyond anything he might be able to put into words. He finds it difficult to tell her this, even after all their years of marriage. He only knows how to act his love. So it is that when the doctors give her three months, when her body is finally beaten and broken enough that she asks, the only thing he can do, could ever do, is to say ‘yes’.  
  
  
Which is how finds himself in Miranda Lawson’s office, hat in hand, asking for extended leave from the practice. Because his wife asked. He is under no illusion that she would consider this for any other reason than because it is for Jessie. Were it for himself there would be an immediate and resounding ‘no’. But it's for Jessie and everyone who knows her, loves her. Such is the case of everyone at the private orthopedic practice who worked with her. They love her. Perhaps as well as he loves her.  
  
  
He’s just the lucky bastard that gets to go home to her at night.  
  
  
Ultimately, Miranda agrees to two years (because what the hell do the doctors know anyway?) and does not say what they are both thinking (Two years and then what? Two years for Jessie to die.). He leaves her office with his tail between his legs and his heart heavier than it has ever been.  
  
  
He takes Jessie to the house in Costa Rica (to die by the beach, to die by the waters she has always loved), but he can’t be with her always. Two years away is not two years with no consequence. It’s left unsaid, that he will have a life after. So it’s on a trip to a conference--she had insisted he go--that she reaches for the morphine the home help nurse had left too close (he has to trust that this exact thing will not happen, and even when it does, he can’t blame even while he rages). She reaches for and swallows when he is on his way home (boarding the red-eye while she pushes the pills in and swallows with spit and fire and determination). She swallows because she cannot live, because she asked him and just that once he said ‘no’; not thinking, not believing that she would do it, is even capable of doing it on her own. She swallows because living broken and helpless is no life for a brightly burning star such as herself.  
  
  
She leaves him alone, heart breaking every time he breathes. He isn’t ready. He could never be ready. But her body is all that’s left, bright spark gone, extinguished by betrayal of muscle and nerve.  
  
  
She takes herself away and he is lost. Resigns himself to a life of solitary pain.  
  
  
In the end, he only needs one year, five months, and three days.


	2. Too Close to Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fan art was done by the amazing [ onemooncircles on Tumblr](http://onemooncircles.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> Brief mentions of possible child abuse.

**Paradise Island, Nassau, Bahamas**  
  
  
He knows this place.  
  
  
Blue-green water as clear as glass, lapping gently at craggy rocks. Gentle breeze that carries the cries of gulls, the scent of salt and decay. Above a sky so perfectly blue, so perfectly filled with white clouds that it's impossible to believe it's real. On the far horizon, blazing white cruise ships sit like toys in a bathtub, as if he could reach out and scoop them up in his hand. He resists the urge to try.  
  
  
She had brought him here many times. After they were married they came to meet her family. And then many times after that. (Vacations where they would lay on the beach, make love with the windows open, curtains blowing, her cries ringing out against the sound of waves.) Less so once they bought the house in Costa Rica. She never came back after her brother died and her cancer returned, unable to face her parents, knowing they would both outlive their children. It was a terrible burden she never wanted. He can't say as he blames her.  
  
  
But now here she is again. Her ashes in an urn, the urn clutched tightly in her mother's arms. She holds on as if that will keep Jessie here, still safe, still alive and dancing along the water. Her father speaks, words lost on the wind.  
  
  
_She’s there, right behind him. Almost touching. He can hear her gentle breathing, in and out, puffs of air on his shoulder. Can smell her perfume--light and warm as it hits his nose. He closes his eyes and wills her to touch him. Begs her to be there. Please, Jess. Don't leave. Don't—_  
  
  
He turns his head and she is gone.  
  
  
A handful of ashes scattered.  
  
  
Her mother holding tight with shaking hands while her father cries silent tears.  
  
  
It is all a goddamn wretched nightmare from which there is no wakening.  
  
  
~~~~~  
  
  
  
  
  
**18 months later**  
  
  
Kasumi Goto is one of the best nurses Zaeed has ever had chance to work with. She keeps details in her head that baffle him, has a way with his young patients that makes his job seem easy, is disgustingly chipper on a daily basis. And is a goddamn, bloody nuisance.  
  
  
"C'mon, boss. We'll pick you up at seven."  
  
  
"No."  
  
  
"You should wear a nice suit, that dark blue one with the pinstripe. It's very sexy on you-"  
  
  
"No." He picks up the tablet and stylus off the counter and turns toward the exam room that holds his last patient of the day.  
  
  
She dances around in front of him, slowing his progress. "You realize that Keiji will just let himself in if you don't answer the door."  
  
  
Zaeed pins her with a glare. "Explain to me again how it is your goddamn husband isn't in jail?"  
  
  
"He's a security consultant," she says, her voice flippant and charming. "He gets paid to test security. How's your security, boss?"  
  
  
"I own grenades."  
  
  
Kasumi laughs. "Liar."  
  
  
"Test my security and find out. Can I get to my patient, you little gnat?"  
  
  
"Doctor Massani." She folds her hands across her chest, her voice taking on The Tone. _Serious. Shit. She's fucking serious._ "It's Christmas."  
  
  
"Not yet it's not. Christmas is Sunday. Today is Friday."  
  
  
"You skipped the Christmas party last year, you big chicken. I'm not letting you off this year. We’ll pick you up at seven and if you're not dressed, I'll stuff you in a sack and bring you anyway."  
  
  
He's lost this battle. He knows this. Kasumi is a force of nature that wears a person away like blowing sand on rocks. Slowly. And somewhat painfully. "I'm not jumping out of any sack at goddamn Christmas."  
  
  
"Then I guess you’d better wear the blue suit. With a festive tie. Surely you have a festive tie."  
  
  
He grumbles about looking for one just to get rid of her. But he dreads the thought of searching through his closet. Save for the few he’s purchased recently, every tie he owns was a gift from Jessie.  
  
  
~~~~~  
  
  
There are patients he has now that he knows Jessie would have loved, singled them out in particular. They're the ones that have an extra spark, make them individuals that stand out in the crowd of patients he cranks through on a weekly basis. They're the ones that after she retired, unable to work even part-time anymore, he would tell her about when he got home at the end of the day: the returning kids that she'd already met and how they're faring in their treatment, the new kids and what their prognosis is.  
  
  
Now there are kids she'll never even know that he wishes he could tell her about. And one in particular. This girl, Lucy, in front of him, who brings him pictures that she’s drawn on notebook paper. Really good illustrations that show incredible talent; Jessie would have fawned over them, bonded with the girl over them. He does his best, but he’s a poor substitute. In the last year, Lucy has gone from sweet and hopeful, grinning at him, asking him about the scars on his face with open curiosity to closed and worried, anxious like no twelve-year-old should be anxious.  
  
  
He knows there's more to it that the scoliosis brace she's wearing. He suspects it has more to do with the bruising on her arms that the mother explains away--interrupting his gentle question before Lucy can get a word in. So he goes about it in another way as he examines her spine.  
  
  
“How's middle school? They let you take art classes yet?”  
  
  
Lucy shrugs. “Yeah. But only three times a week.”  
  
  
“Other kids aren’t giving you sh-crap about your brace, are they? Cause I’ll kick their arses if they are.”  
  
  
He gets a small laugh from her for that, and a scowl from the mother that he ignores. It’s worth it to cheer the kid up. She shakes her head. “No.”  
  
  
“Good. How ‘bout at home? Everything okay?” He gets another shrug for that, but doesn’t push it. The mother tenses up, as if waiting for him to say something further. He refrains for legality’s sake.  
  
  
He taps her on the shoulder. “Alright, brace back on. You’re wearing it at home, school, everywhere, right?” He looks at Lucy’s mother, who nods before complaining that she can't be on the girl about it all the time. And that explains that. He tells them he's concerned the brace isn't helping as much as expected, that there might be the possible need for surgery, so he calls in Kasumi to take the mother out of the exam room and review information again, hopefully give her a scare about not following the guidelines he's set up. He helps Lucy put her coat on, his eye on the two women he can see through the open door. "Wanna tell me where those bruises come from, Lucy?"  
  
  
The child stiffens, arms frozen in the sleeves of her coat. He thinks maybe she stops breathing for a few seconds before she shakes her head vigorously, eyes darting quickly toward her mother’s back.  
  
  
He sighs and zips up her coat. "Alright. I'll see you in six months."  
  
  
She casts a glance back at him as she follows her mother down the hall, brown eyes big and round and pleading. It makes him grit his teeth, the feeling of anger at whoever is hurting her. "I need to go make a phone call," he tells Kasumi.  
  
  
She nods. She had seen the bruises as well.  
  
  
He's at the end of his call when Kasumi sticks her head in his office, cracking the door quietly. He waves her in and she parks herself against the wall, arms crossed.  
  
  
"You okay," she asks when he's finished.  
  
  
He throws his cell phone on the desk and leans back, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah. I hate that shit."  
  
  
Jessie would have told him a thousand and one things, about how it's better this way to go through official channels, to make sure the child's well being comes first. But all he wants to do is crack the skull of whoever's been abusing that little girl.  
  
  
"So," Kasumi says. "Seven o'clock."  
  
  
He looks at the time. "I need to go to the gym and hit something. Very fucking hard. Over and over. Make it seven-thirty. And you don't have to pick me up. I have a goddamn car."  
  
  
The corner of her mouth quirks up. "I know. It's a Jag and everything, mister fancy bossman. Consider this your taxi service."  
  
  
“Hey. Hold on a sec.” He grabs an envelope from his desk and hands it over to her. Her name is written in his barely legible scrawl. “Merry Christmas.”  
  
  
Her face crumples when she sees the bonus check, the tickets to the opening of a Van Gogh exhibit in Chicago. The cash to pay for a hotel. She puts her whole heart into a giant hug. “Thanks, boss.”  
  
  
Later, he finds a small, wrapped box in his pocket, slipped there unbeknownst to him. Inside rests a pair of cufflinks with the initials ‘Z’ and ‘M’. He’s pretty sure he’s been fortunate to have Kasumi as a nurse. Maybe even a friend.  
  
  
At the gym he hits the punching bag. Very fucking hard. Over and over. Until he's dripping with sweat and his knuckles are bruised.  
  
  
He showers at home and the memory of Jessie hits him hard, how she’d join him under the water, soapy hands down his back, over his arse. _She’s right behind him and if he moves just right, he can feel the press of her breasts into his back, nipples peaked. Her arms wrap around his waist, dipping lower to find him already aching for her. He turns to her, lifts her knee and slides into her while she wraps her legs around him._ It's so vivid how she felt, being inside her. He throbs in his hand as he gets himself off over the memory of his dead wife, feeling guilty and unable to stop. Cum slides down the wall of the shower.  
  
  
“Fuck.” He rests his forehead on the tile, water spraying down his back. “Goddamnit, Jess. Fuck.”  
  
  
~~~~~  
  
  
There's a 12-piece band playing a mix of jazz standards and Christmas songs at one end of the banquet hall. As soon as they enter, Kasumi grabs Keiji's hand and pulls him onto the dance floor where he occasionally catches a glimpse of them twirling through the crowd. He surveys the tables loaded with hors d'oeuvres. He picks at a couple things, but doesn't have much appetite (he hasn't had an appetite for a year and a half), so he makes his way to the bar at the back of the room, nodding at his co-workers and feeling like something is missing.  
  
  
Someone is missing, more like.  
  
  
He camps out on a barstool, watches the crowd, tries to not drink his whiskey too quickly. Little things make him jumpy; thinking he sees her floating between the tables, the swish of a red dress, the delighted laugh that could be hers but is actually one of the nurses instead, a silhouette that he would swear he knows from top to bottom.  
  
  
He thinks about calling a cab and going home. This was such a mistake.  
  
  
Then there's a heavy hand on his shoulder and Steven Hackett is sitting next to him, waving his finger at the bartender. "What're you having, Zaeed?"  
  
  
Ice swirls in the bottom of his glass. He's surprised to see it empty. "Scotch."  
  
  
Hackett nods and orders the same for himself. He copies Zaeed, leaning his elbows back on the bar to look out at the banquet hall swarming with people. He's wearing some black Armani suit that cuts him lean and sharp. But then, he always looks lean and sharp. Zaeed wonders if he'd had a stint in the military when he was younger. They've never talked about their pasts. They've never had the occasion.  
  
  
"You look like someone ran over your cat," Steven says.  
  
  
It's about how he feels. If he had a cat. If he liked cats. He shrugs, turns his attention to the dancers on the floor. Time to deflect. "Your new nurse hasn't asked me to dance. Can't decide if I'm insulted or not."  
  
  
Steven gives him a sidelong glance, his face a mixture of confused amusement. "Maybe he just hasn't gotten around to it."  
  
  
They sit for a moment, watching Hackett's nurse Richard Jenkins twirl a red-headed girl Zaeed doesn't recognize around on the dance floor. "You hit that yet?"  
  
  
"No." He draws it out, his voice pitched low. No-o-o-o. As if to emphasise that he would never 'hit that'. And Zaeed knows him well enough to know it would be about the same as asking him if he'd 'hit that' with Kasumi. It doesn't stop him from giving the man a hard time about it though.  
  
  
"Damn fine ass." The ass in question is bopping back and forth right at them, obviously firm under tight fitting pants. "Mind if I hit that?"  
  
  
"Zaeed." Steven's voice lowers even further.  
  
  
"What?"  
  
  
"Stay the hell away from my nurse."  
  
  
He smirks. "Well, don't think I can do that."  
  
  
"Why the hell not?" Steven's eyebrows are down, his arms crossed over his chest.  
  
  
He points with his drink towards the nurse in question, pulling the unknown red-headed girl behind him toward the bar. "He's making a goddamn beeline right for us."  
  
  
Steven barely has time to look before they've been descended upon. "Hey, Doctor H! I want you to meet my girlfriend, Jenna. She's who I was telling you about? She's going to community college to be a florist? Jenna this is Doctor Steven Hackett. He's my boss!"  
  
  
Zaeed watches with amusement as Steven wipes the scowl off his face and turns into the most gracious of gentlemen, shaking her hand and introducing Zaeed.  
  
  
"Oh my gosh!" Richard Jenkins seems to speak in either exclamation points or question marks. "You're the pediatrician! Jenna, Doc Massani is one of the best pediatric orthopedic doctors in the state!"  
  
  
“Well, I don't—”  
  
  
Jenkins grabs his hand and shakes Zaeed's with both of his. "It's a real pleasure! I've seen you around, sure? But you know how it is? Doctors and nurses!"  
  
  
Zaeed blinks. Not really certain what the kid means by that.  
  
  
Jenkins takes his girlfriend off to the other end of the bar where some of the office staff are clustered and making a ruckus. He shakes his head at Steven. "You smell that?"  
  
  
"Smell what?"  
  
  
He waves his hand in the air, a bit more wildly than he normally would have due to the drink. "Freshly mown hay. Which goddamn farm did you say you plucked him off of?"  
  
  
Steven rolls his eyes and orders two more drinks. "Shut up, Zaeed."  
  
  
The scar that cuts across Steven’s cheek twists and dances as he talks and Zaeed has a hard time taking his eyes off it.  
  
  
He drinks too much. (Of course he does. She's not there to take the glass away, to distract him with her hand on his back, to beg him to dance with her. Slow dances only. His rule.)  
  
  
"You're not driving home," Hackett tells him.  
  
  
"Didn't drive. 'Sumi 'n...Kay...gee brought me." His words slur together. The world tilts sideways. "She don' trus' me--" Hackett stops his sideways slide, grabbing his suit jacket in a bunch to pull him upright “--to not come."  
  
  
"C'mon. I'll take you home."  
  
  
"Tell 'Sumi. Or she'll think I go' myself kidnapped."  
  
  
Steven's car is high end. Leather seats like butter that he rubs under his fingers. And quiet. Not like his Jag. It barely makes a noise. Deathly quiet. Too quiet for his liking. So he talks nonstop, nattering on about whatever drunken shite that spills out of his mouth to fill the dead space.  
  
  
He doesn't notice the neighborhood Steven is driving through, or the street he slows down on. Or the house he stops in front of until he puts the car in 'park' and looks over at him with some sort of odd mixture of amusement and exasperation. "Home, Zaeed."  
  
  
He doesn't get out of the car. Just looks at the house. It's a brick Cape Cod, three dormer windows facing the street. Tasteful white Christmas lights line the windows and winter-dormant hedges along the front. It's a beautiful house. Stately, with a sloping lawn that meets the street and not a dead leaf out of place. Jessie had picked it out nine years ago.  
  
  
But.  
  
  
His guts churn and bile rises in his throat. "The fuck you bring me here?"  
  
  
"That's your house. You live here."  
  
  
He shakes his head and the world swims around him, whiskey pounding through his veins. "No. Don' live here. No' anymore." The muscles of his stomach clench. "Why the fuck did you bring me here?"  
  
  
"I thought-"  
  
  
"Couldn't do it. Couldn't stay. Tried. Fuck, I tried." He leans forward, his head in his hands. What sick torture was this? "I couldn't--Sold it. Couldn't stay there. She--"  
  
  
She'd been everywhere in the house. Her scent permeated every room. Her footsteps imprinted on the carpet. Her clothes draped in the closet. Her watercolors on the walls. He'd lived there all of three days before he'd called a realtor, nearly out of his mind in desperation to be rid of it.  
  
  
"Shit--" He opens the car door, unbuckling himself with rushed, clumsy fingers, rolling out to land on his hands and knees. He pukes in the gutter where it sprays over the slushy snow that had fallen only hours before.  
  
  
The whiskey burns twice as hard coming back up.  
  
  
Steven is there, crouching down next to him. "Goddamnit, Steven." He can't look up at him, ashamed over something he can't even put a name to. Wet snow soaks into his trouser legs, his hands freezing cold, small pebbles and grit digging into his palms. "Godfuckingdamnit. Why’d you fucking bring me here?"  
  
  
"I'm sorry, Zaeed. I didn't know. I didn't think."  
  
  
He doesn't make a move to get up. Content for the moment to examine the contents of his stomach. He breathes, in and out, in and out, willing the world to stop spinning. “I didn't think either. Walked in that goddamn door ‘n it was as if I'd just gone out t’ get her ice cream. Everything the exact same it was before. Except—”  
  
  
“Zaeed, come on,” Steven grabs him under his arm and stands slowly, drawing him up with him. He leans him against the side of the car before brushing the snow from his knees. Then he reaches into his pocket to pull out a handkerchief and holds it out.  
  
  
“What. Really?”  
  
  
“Yes. Really. You've got—” he points at Zaeed's cheek.  
  
  
He shakes off slush that clings to his hands. The handkerchief is bright white. Too clean for him. But it's not going away, so he takes it and rubs at the spot Steven had indicated with his long fingers. He folds the cloth and tries to give it back but it's waved away so he stuffs it in his pocket with a sigh.  
  
  
Steven looks like he wants to say something. And he's pretty certain he doesn't want to hear whatever that might be because it's either an admonishment for still clinging to her memory or a pitying apology that she's gone. He doesn't need either.  
  
  
He pushes off the car, brushing past Steven as he stumbles away.  
  
  
“Where the hell do you think you're going?”  
  
  
He tries to take a step, but he's held back. Steven has the back of his coat in a tight grip. “Walking home.”  
  
  
He can't even think which direction home is.  
  
  
“You're an ass. Get in the car.” He tugs at him, pulling him backwards.  
  
  
“Fucking spoil your Italian leather seats.”  
  
  
“Jesus Christ, Zaeed. Get in the car and tell me where you live.” His voice has that low, authoritative tone that garners respect and obedience. And he's just drunk enough and befuddled enough to go along. He sits back in the car and doesn't fail to notice how gently Steven closes the door.  
  
  
The streetlight illuminates the driver's side, casting deep shadows over the man as he sits back down next to him. The scar on his cheek--a long line that carves it's way through his neatly trimmed goatee and over his upper lip--stands out in high relief. He's a very handsome man. Sharp. All lines, long and lean.  
  
  
A thought strikes him after he gives Hackett his new address. “You were alone tonight. What happened to whassisname?”  
  
  
Steven drives in silence for a minute, a quirk of his eyebrow the only sign he'd even registered the question. “Tadius,” he says finally.  
  
  
“Yeah. Tadius. Always looked like he wanted an excuse to kick my ass.” He leans his head back on the seat and closes his eyes.  
  
  
He hears a huff of breath as Steven laughs softly. And then nothing for a minute until he says, “We broke it off.”  
  
  
Zaeed grunts. “Sorry to hear that. You were together for a while.”  
  
  
“It was for the best,” he says. Softly, under his breath. As if trying to convince himself.  
  
  
He doesn't remember much after that, lulled by the quiet sounds of the car and Hackett's even breathing.


	3. Come Away from the Abyss

_Handsome Hackett. Handsome Hackett. Handsome Hackett..._  
  
  
The words wake with him, like a song from a dream that had chased through his head on railroad tracks all night. The beat pulses with the pounding in his head, loud reverberations of punishing hangover that echo through his tortured body.  
  
  
He's face down in bed, stripped of everything but boxers, covered in a sheet. Wondering how the hell he got here. "Why'd you let me drink so much, Jess?" He mumbles into the sheet, throat craggy and sore. He tastes bile, sour and bitter on his tongue and he remembers.  
  
  
_I can't stop you, my darling. Not anymore._  
  
  
The pounding continues, so he drags himself up off the bed and pulls on a t-shirt while he stumbles to the front door to make it stop.  
  
  
_Handsome Hackett._  
  
  
He almost says it out loud because there he is, looking fresh and outdoorsy and--  
  
  
"The hell is that?"  
  
  
"This, Zaeed, is an ever so strange and rare creature called a dog. Specifically a Gordon Setter named Max." The morning sunlight streams in behind Steven as he stands on the balcony of his apartment, blinding him as he squints at these two creatures on his doorstep. "And this," he holds out a grocery bag filled with several somethings, "is breakfast. You're going to need it before we go for a walk."  
  
  
It takes a minute for it all to process, information running along damaged synapses such as they are. The dog in question sits at attention, tail thumping gently on the floor, waiting with a panting grin on his face. He has a long, black shiny coat edged with brown and nearly black eyes that speak of indisputable devotion. He's not too sure how he feels about dogs in general, never having had one, or desired to have one. But this one appears acceptable.  
  
  
Cold wind swirls around his bare legs. "Why do I have the feeling I'm being steamrolled?" But he steps aside to let the man and the dog in. Steven drops the leash to take off his coat and the dog sits nearly at the same time, obviously well trained.  
  
  
"Probably because you are. Is it alright to let him loose?"  
  
  
"Be my guest," he waves his hand, shutting the door against the chill. He feels slightly disgusting, can practically feel the alcohol seeping through his pores. He rubs his unshaven jaw and tries not to notice Hackett's arse as he bends over to release the dog. "I'm going to, uh..." he points towards the bedroom. "I need a shower."  
  
  
He takes a step, turning as he does, and his head bashes into the dining table chandelier. He has no dining table. And he's gotten used to walking around the lighting fixture so he doesn't do exactly this. But there's a man and a dog and a distracting arse in the way. And he's forgotten about the goddamn light. It conks him good on the temple so that he can almost hear the sound of a gong bouncing off the inside of his skull.  
  
  
"Fuck!" He grabs the light to keep it from swinging back at him, turns to find Steven right there at his elbow.  
  
  
"You alright?" There's concern in his voice, but also amusement. Like Zaeed is a solo Abbott and Costello act set up for Steven's own personal entertainment. Goddamn him.  
  
  
"Fucking peachy." It's done nothing for the pounding headache. He presses the spot with his palm, grimacing with the pain.  
  
  
"Let me see." Steven's trying to pull his hand away so he lets him, although reluctantly. Long, capable fingers twist his face to the side, his thumb almost brushing the corner of his mouth. He can hear the rasp of his morning's beard under Steven's fingers and he realizes the proximity gives the other man a close-up of the scar that curls around the right side of his face. He doesn't breathe, and he doesn't realize he doesn't breathe until his lungs start to hurt. The man is far too close for comfort.  
  
  
If he tugs away too quickly, Steven doesn't comment. Only lifting his eyebrow at him like an errant child.  
  
  
"You'll have a nice bruise," he says. "But you'll live."  
  
  
"Gee, thanks. Good thing you're a goddamn doctor." He's mildly surprised to find a wet nose has pushed itself into his hand, that he unthinkingly has been scratching at the soft fur behind Max's ear. He gives the dog a final, surreptitious scratch, before edging away towards his bedroom. "You need...pans, or--?"  
  
  
"I'll hunt around, if that's alright."  
  
  
Zaeed backhands a wave. Clean-cut Steven Hackett in his apartment has given him the strange and very strong urge to run and hide.  
  
  
He leaves the door to the bathroom open a crack, which is apparently enough of an invitation for Max to be waiting for him when he emerges, sitting on his bath mat, tail thumping the floor when he pushes the curtain away. "The hell do you want?" The question causes Max to lick his chops and pant harder, grinning at him as he shifts his butt with eagerness.  
  
  
He smells coffee and something savory, maybe eggs. His stomach rumbles, which he doesn't really expect, what with all the alcohol considered. "What the fuck is he doing here," he asks the dog. "And why the hell did he bring you?"  
  
  
He feels fairly fresh and perhaps more alive once he's shaved and dressed in jeans and an old hooded sweatshirt. It doesn’t escape his notice that the suit he wore the night before had been folded and draped carefully over a chair back; the knees of his trousers slightly stained from the snow, shoes tucked neatly under the chair. Which answers that question: considering the state he had been in, he would have just left everything in a pile on the floor. Max follows him around the room, ducking his head under his hand as he stops, more than once, to run his fingers through the feather light fur. When he sits on the bed to pull on his socks, the dog is at his side, laying his head on his leg. "Laying it on a bit thick, aren't you?"  
  
  
"He really likes you," Steven says from the doorway. It makes him jump just a little. "Sorry. Door was open."  
  
  
"S'alright."  
  
  
"He doesn't usually take to strangers like this." Max pads over and sits at Steven's feet, looking up with what Zaeed can only imagine is the adoration of a well-loved dog. "Do you, boy?" The tail thumps. _Whatever you say, boss._  
  
  
Steven leans on the door jam, arms crossed, and watches him pull on his other sock. “You know your kitchen is horrifically under-supplied, right?”  
  
  
Zaeed doesn’t mention the boxes in the second bedroom, loaded up with all their belongings from the house; including pots and pans, cutlery, dishes, espresso machine and fancy toaster. All packed away, labelled, and sealed a year and a half ago. He doesn’t mention he only goes into that room out of bare necessity, each box full of Jessie Bombs he doesn’t have the willpower to confront. He doesn’t mention that he went out and bought all new of whatever he thought he needed for the apartment--and what he thought he needed was not a lot--in a rush of getting it done and never bothered beyond that.  
  
  
Instead, he shrugs. “I don’t cook.”  
  
  
“Well, that much is obvious. Jesus, Zaeed.” The man shakes his head, but he’s smiling like he’s been told a joke. Otherwise Zaeed’s hackles would be up and he’d be kicking the man and his too-friendly dog out the door in a heartbeat. Still...  
  
  
“I didn’t invite you, you know.” He tries to say it in jest, but the words come out harder than he intends; prickly and barbed. The man is blocking his exit, doesn’t budge as he approaches. But his face falls for a moment and Zaeed feels panic rise, that he might say something--I’m so sorry about Jessie--so that his teeth clench and he ducks his head, ashamed to be living with all the morass of their lives together packed away, hidden like dirty secrets that even he is afraid to approach.  
  
  
“Do you not--I'm sorry. I came as a friend. I can leave.”  
  
  
It takes him several moments to register that while Steven is apologizing, it's not for what he had anticipated. His face closes off and he starts to turn away. Which is when Zaeed decides he doesn't want him to leave; he likes his presence here, like this. A strange sort of comradery he hasn't experienced in a long time. “Shit. Steven. I'm a fucked up bastard. That's not--don't. Just—”  
  
  
He's gone still; Zaeed's hand on his arm. Steven looks at him then, blue eyes almost piercing through him so that he feels pinned in place. Steven's shirt is soft under his touch; well-worn chambray. So unlike the crisp white shirts he wears at work. He wonders again, of all the years they've known each other why the man has chosen now to show up like this. They've never been more than friendly acquaintances in a sea of medical personnel. Even when Jessie would have a dinner party, invite other doctors to their house--Steven and Tadius included--his job had been to pour the wine and tell stories. It had never once crossed his mind that these people might be friends. Colleagues, more like.  
  
  
But a friend?  
  
  
Beyond whatever Kasumi might be, it's been awhile since he’s had a friend except for Jessie.  
  
  
“I barged right in.”  
  
  
“Could have told you to fuck off and slammed the door in your face.”  
  
  
Steven's eyebrows arch. “True enough.”  
  
  
He drops his hand. His heart is pounding; he doesn’t want to broadcast that fact through his fingertips and up Steven’s arm. How is it possible with just the raise of those bushy, salt-and-pepper eyebrows, his heart starts to trip over itself. Not like he hasn’t seen him do that a thousand times before; it’s so utterly unremarkable. Yet it opens up his face from it’s usual stern seriousness to surprise, one corner of his mouth twinged up, his eyes bright with mirth. He’s always vaguely considered Steven as good-looking in a way one might find anyone else on the street good-looking. But, before, he’d been married and Jessie had always been enough for him. That he is now harboring an attraction for the man surprises him to no end. He hasn’t entertained an attraction to a man in a long time--since his days as a resident really. And then Jessie had entered his orbit and that, as they say, had been that.  
  
  
But now. He realizes he’s free in a way he hasn’t been in a long time. He also realizes he’s been staring at Steven’s mouth like he wants to claim ownership on it, plant his own flag there, defend it to the death. He blinks, which is enough to break the spell and notice that Steven has noticed he's been staring and what the bloody hell he's been staring at. Goddamn him.  
  
  
He steps away. “I smell coffee.”  
  
  
Steven sighs and jerks his head toward the kitchen. “C’mon.”  
  
  
He’s made omelets, stuffed full and layered in cheese. And there’s rye toast (did he know his penchant for rye? or had he just brought what he liked himself?). They sit at the breakfast counter on the tall stools, because he doesn’t have a table. He tucks in like he hasn’t eaten for months. It’s been a long time since anything has tasted so good, he realizes. Years, in fact, since he’s had much of an appetite. As if his stomach has woken from a long slumber.  
  
  
He sneaks bits of toast to Max, who sits patiently, licking the palm of his hand, cleaning his fingers of butter.  
  
  
“I see that,” Steven says, eyeing him sideways.  
  
  
Zaeed grins, plastering his face with as much innocence as he can muster. “No idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
  
~~~~~  
  
  
He ponders later the diplomacy skills Steven Hackett whammied him with to get him to take a hike with him and Max. He’s not sure how he did it, or what he said; the man missed his calling in the diplomatic service. All he knows is that he dug into his closet to pull out an old parka, and dug even deeper to locate some hiking boots that he hasn’t worn in years.  
  
  
Max rides in the backseat, lolling on a blanket until they pull into the small gravel parking lot of Pragia Park. He whines, panting in their ears as the tires crunch over the gravel. When Zaeed turns his head to the dog, Max’s tongue flips out and covers his chin and cheek quickly in a wet slurp before he can even consider the possibility.  
  
  
The ready affection surprises him.  
  
  
Pragia Park sits on the edge of Normandy; several hundred acres of heavily wooded forests interspersed with sloping fields of prairie. Wide trails amble along creeks and around copses of dormant trees. Steven lets Max off leash once they are deep into the woods and he's off and away through the underbrush.  
  
  
Zaeed is surprised by the moment of anxiety he feels watching the dog slip away. And the rush of relief when he comes bounding back a minute later, touching his nose to first Steven's and then his own hand before loping off ahead of them on the trail.  
  
  
Leaves crunch and rustle under their feet, wet still with the slushy snow that had fallen the night before. Steven points to a side trail that leads up a small hill and whistles for Max to follow as they turn, winding their way up along the dirt path that leads through the tall, dead grass. Max makes his own way, a shadow of movement as he follows his nose hunting for rabbit or field mice.  
  
  
They’ve walked mostly in silence, chuffing on cold, winter air. He feels the leaden weight of his thoughts, caught up in his own world but noticing still the swing of Max’s leash as it dangles from Steven’s long fingers, or the way the hem of his jeans hits his boot, the deepness of the other man’s voice as he calls to the dog--how it rumbles in his chest first before a sound gets past his lips.  
  
  
When they reach the top of the hill, they pause and turn, surveying the landscape that lays out before them--the deep pitch of the hill, the creek that hums with clear, cold water, the woods beyond. It seems both real and magical. The clouds are heavy with snow; gray and oppressive over their heads. And now that there’s no protection, the wind bites at them, sending the grass rushing in waves. Zaeed hunkers into his coat, turning his collar up against the chill.  
  
  
He remembers the first time he and Jessie had found this park. Not this spot. They had been further off down the creek, dipping their feet in the cool water on a hot summer’s day soon after they had moved to Normandy; full of themselves. Full of a fresh start. It seems a thousand years ago; distant and hazy, reverberating with echoes. With everything in between that wants to pull him under, drag him down into the silent depths of memory and regret.  
  
  
He takes a deep breath and tries to push her away.  
  
  
Max finds a stick and brings it in silent tribute, laying it at Steven’s feet. The man reaches down and grabs it, throws it off into the grass where the dog leaps after it, barking with the excitement of the chase.  
  
  
“Ask you something?” Zaeed says.  
  
  
Steven turns to him, eyebrows raised. “Certainly.”  
  
  
“Not that I don’t appreciate breakfast walking in the door and all. I’m just curious. What the hell are you doing?”  
  
  
“Leave it to Zaeed Massani to question someone’s good intentions.” He says the last on a huff of breath, throwing the returned stick back off into the grass. Max’s long coat flies behind him, nearly wings.  
  
  
He says nothing, just watches as Steven quirks an eyebrow.  
  
  
“You think I have some ulterior motive.”  
  
  
“No—”  
  
  
“So what’s the problem?”  
  
  
“It’s just--We’ve never been anything other than colleagues. I’m just wondering—”  
  
  
“Why now?”  
  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
  
Max drops the stick at Zaeed’s feet, looking up with expectation. It’s wet and brittle, already showing teeth marks. Max pants, poised to run, all tense muscle and attention. He throws it, not as far as Steven’s managed, and wipes the spittle off on his jeans.  
  
  
Steven watches the dog, tracking his movements through the grass. But Zaeed can feel all his attention zeroed in on himself. It makes him feel...twitchy; under a microscope.  
  
  
“Just seemed like you could use a friend,” he says. “That’s all.”  
  
  
He hides the small feeling of disappointment deep down, buries it and thinks it’s for the best. Getting involved with Steven Hackett, with anyone at all really, he doesn’t think his heart could stand up to it.  
  
  
He feels a cold drop on his cheek. Snow has started to fall; fat flakes that land and stick to clothes and skin. He turns his face up to the sky and counts the lazy snowflakes as they make their way down.  
  
  
Not a bad Christmas Eve day, when he thinks what he might have done instead: a whole helluva lot of nothing.


	4. Caught in the In-Between

He's on call Christmas day. Which is what he wants. To keep busy. To keep from thinking. He drives to the hospital through the freshly plowed streets while it's still dark, ignoring the thought of other people getting up and enjoying the time with their family, cozy in their houses.  
  
  
He gets a text from Steven as he pulls into the parking lot. “Merry Christmas. Hope it's a slow day for you.” Steven had told him about his friend from college who now lives in Chicago, how he planned to drive there after he dropped Zaeed off at home and spend the rest of the holiday weekend. He ponders for a moment the time (6:36am) and that he would be texting him so early. He wonders if he's still in bed, warm and blurry-eyed, and chases that idea away as unproductive. He texts back, “Thanks. Merry Christmas.”  
  
  
He spends the morning in surgery (some people never learn how to drive in the snow); thankful and feeling guilty that he has something to keep his mind occupied. By early afternoon he's able to take a break, grabbing his phone from his locker and finding a quiet spot in a lounge.  
  
  
He scrolls through his contacts and takes a deep breath as he waits for the call to go through, giving a name to the operator and waiting more, the double buzz that sounds like home and nothing like home at all.  
  
  
Finally, her voice, gentle and careful as always, sounding older with the palsy.  
  
  
“Mum. It's Zaeed. Just wanted to wish you Happy Christmas.”  
  
  
“Zaeed?” For one moment, he lets himself hope; maybe this time she'll remember. He fools himself into thinking he hears recognition in her voice, that she knows, just this one time, that her son is phoning from across the pond. He closes his eyes and listens to her intake of breath. He can imagine her green eyes--just a shade darker than his one--widening in surprise, her fingers clutching the receiver, the skin on her hand thin and spotted with age. “No, dear. You're mistaken. Zaeed died years ago.”  
  
  
He is more than a fool. So he tries again, “No, Mum. Not Uncle Zaeed. It's your son—”  
  
  
“You have the wrong number.” Her voice turns cold, clipped south London accent cutting him off.  
  
  
But she doesn't hang up like she always has before. He holds his breath, counting his heartbeats. He can hear her breathing; thousands of miles away and he can just make out the small sounds of her as she sits and just exists.  
  
  
“Mum?”  
  
  
“Zaeed?”  
  
  
His heart hammers in his chest, coughing up the thrill of her saying his name. Remembering her son.  
  
  
“Is that our Zaeed?”  
  
  
“Yeah. It's me.” He smiles, covers his eyes with his hand. “It's me. I'm sorry I—”  
  
  
“You must call Doctor Wilson.”  
  
  
“What? Who's Doctor—”  
  
  
“Right away, dear. Quickly now. Don't just stand there with your mouth open. Da’s not well.”  
  
  
“Da? Who—”  
  
  
His stomach drops out from underneath him.  He remembers the story she used to tell, finding her father in his chair when she was fifteen. How her younger brother, Zaeed, had stood there gobsmacked while she had taken control, even so far as to give the ambulance drivers a piece of her mind. _“Damn idiots had no idea what the hell they were doing.”_ The fact that she had been a teenager, and hardly qualified to know herself, hadn’t stopped her. Not his mum.  
  
  
The reality that she's not talking to her son hits him like a physical blow, the wind knocked out of him so that he sways in the chair, berating himself for letting himself hope. His uncle has been dead nearly thirty years, but that hardly matters when she's back there in that time, in that hell hole of a place.  
  
  
The phone clicks as she hangs up suddenly, apparently done with him.  
  
  
He burns with the shame of being forgotten. His mother's only son, never remembered as being born and sometimes wishing it to be true. Had he not been there, Jessie would have met someone else, perhaps someone who could have cajoled her into taking better care of herself, not let her run herself ragged with her intense need to do everything, go everywhere before her time was up. Perhaps then she would still be alive, not scattered on the rocks like smoke and fog.  
  
  
What does it matter? If he is here or nowhere?  
  
  
He stands in a jerk of movement, presses his forehead on the cool glass of the window, looking down at the snowy street, the blinking lights of a holiday he cannot share because he has no desire to partake. Has no one to share it with.  
  
  
He does not know what he wants. He only knows he is tired of being hounded by her ghost.  
  
  
~~~~~  
  
  
Steven taps on his office door at the end of the day on Tuesday. “What’re you doing Friday night?”  
  
  
He shrugs and consults his calendar, notes the big, blank empty space. “Nothing.”  
  
  
“I have tickets to the Sols game. Fifth row, center court. Want to go?”  
  
  
“With you?” It’s a dumb question. Once it’s out of his mouth, he sort of wants to shove it back in. And with Steven’s half-smirk, half-look of surprise he’s mentally kicking himself. “I mean--Yeah. That’s...good.”  
  
  
“Okay.”  
  
  
“Is that, uh--basketball, right?”  
  
  
“Yes, Zaeed. Basketball.”  
  
  
His face warms. How many years in this country and he’s never managed to familiarize himself with one of it’s favorite pastimes. Now rugby, on the other hand... He knows all about rugby. Still follows the Quins like he had when he was just a lad.  
  
  
He makes a mental note to at least look up the rules.  
  
  
~~~~~  
  
  
The rules don’t prepare him for the excitement of the crowd, the smells of sweat and popcorn and some vague scent of hot rubber. Nor for the way Steven pops up in a rush to yell or cheer, how he sits back down and looks at him with a grin, their knees knocking together in the tight space of their seats. And it’s not long before he’s caught up as well; wanting to ask questions about what had just happened to get him all riled, but not wanting to seem like an idiot either. So he says nothing; instead clapping and cheering and following the ball as it's chased from one end of the court to the other.  
  
  
He even shares in the nachos Steven shoves at him during halftime; chasing it down with overpriced beer that he drinks down like water. It numbs him to the asshole behind them whose language is worse than his own and seems to enjoy shouting that fact right into his ear. At one point, he turns around--scarred side to the asshole--and stares him down, which subdues him to some degree. Steven watches from the corner of his eye; winks when he turns back. And-- _oh, fuck_ \--that doesn’t do his heart any good.  
  
  
The Sols win by two points in the final few minutes that has everyone in the stadium on their feet. He's mentally exhausted and yet physically exhilarated and so when Steven suggests a beer he readily agrees and they cross the street to a bar called Azure that’s teeming with fans, pulsing with the excitement of a near miss.  
  
  
They push their way through the crowd to the bar, a deep bass of music underlying the deafening crowd. They find a bit of space at the end where there's one empty barstool and a few inches of space against the wall. Steven points to the stool for him to sit but he shakes his head, too keyed up, so the other man sits and somehow manages to get them something cold. He presses back against the wall, all too aware of Steven’s elbow in his gut. Someone leans in toward the bar between Steven and the person next to him. He presses closer and turns, nearly shouting in his ear.  
  
  
“Good game!”  
  
  
Zaeed nods. “My first.”  
  
  
“What?”  
  
  
He leans in close to Steven’s ear. He can smell the man’s aftershave; spicy, woodsy. “My first,” he repeats. “Never been before.”  
  
  
“Are you serious?”  
  
  
He shrugs an affirmative, not quite sure what to make of the wicked grin on Steven’s face. Until the man leans close and says directly into his ear, “Shit, Zaeed. I would have bought you flowers if I’d known you were a virgin.”  
  
  
The bar falls away. All the people, the noise; it’s all gone in an instant. All he knows, all he wants to know, is that voice in his ear, low and electric. It makes his heart speed. There is no question in his mind; Steven Hackett could recite the goddamn alphabet and Zaeed would most likely come by the time the other man got to ‘Z’. This is not, however, something he’s willing to share with the class. He rolls his eyes and shoves him away. “Fuck off, Hackett.”  
  
  
Steven just laughs and orders two more beers.  
  
  
~~~~~  
  
  
He’s on call New Year's Eve; twelve hours on the back end of the day, when people who shouldn’t be driving are. Which gives him plenty to do and no sleep to speak of. He wakes around noon with a headache and a text from Steven.  
  
  
S: Come over.  
  
  
He stares at his phone for longer than he probably should, debating.  
  
  
Z: Can’t. Busy.  
  
  
H: Liar. Come on. I’m cleaning the boat. It’s boring. Entertain me.  
  
  
Z: As I suspected. I am simply a tool for your amusement.  
  
  
H: Oh gee damn. Now my secret’s out. Get your ass over here. You can play catch with Max.  
  
  
Z: Why the hell didn’t you say so before?  
  
  
H: As I suspected. I’m simply the guy with the fabulous dog.  
  
  
He grins in spite of himself and gets up to shower.  
  
  
He follows Steven’s directions to get to his house, north out of town and along the twisting road that flirts with views of Lake Despoina, down a long gravel lane through the trees to emerge at a large, white house that sits on the lake. It’s private and quiet, the lake reflecting the bright sun. Max barks, running up from around the other side of the house, sniffing at the bag in his hand and wagging his tail as Zaeed scratches behind his ears.  
  
  
He catches the sound of football drifting over the water and follows Max down to a small boathouse. Inside he can hear the radio announcer’s excited play-by-play of whatever bowl game happens to be on, and the rhythmic pounding of metal on metal, and then an angry curse, followed by a clatter and a thump. The private dock extends out along the side of the boathouse. Max runs into the door on the side, his bark echoing inside.  
  
  
He steps into the enclosed space. It’s warmer here out of the stiff breeze off the lake, but still chilly. The garage door is closed, but he can see and hear the water down below. The boat is up on its dry dock, a metal contraption that looks like it rose up from underneath the boat. Steven is wiping his hands on a grease rag, hair disheveled and looking put upon.  
  
  
“Looks like you’re having fun.”  
  
  
“Hey.” He says it like they haven’t seen each other in months, the sour look clearing from his face. “You found it.” He turns the radio down to background noise.  
  
  
“Yeah.” He shakes the plastic bag out. “Stopped for take-out. Got some extra. Didn’t know if you had eaten yet, or…”  
  
  
He peers toward the bag, tossing the rag over some engine parts. “I could eat. What’ve you got?”  
  
  
Steven clears a spot on the worktable and he pulls out pork bibimbap, bulgogi beef, Korean barbequed ribs, and spring rolls. Beer is produced from a mini fridge. He passes over chopsticks and pretends he doesn’t notice when Steven’s fingertips brush his own. He definitely ignores the way his heart thumps heavy in his chest, concentrates on twisting the beer open.  
  
  
“Oh, shit that’s good.” Steven’s eyes close when he tries the beef. “Where’d you get this?”  
  
  
He shrugs. “This place that—” _Jessie and I used to go to_ “--I know of. Not far from where we--I used to live.” He doesn’t say that he hasn’t been there in years. He can’t explain even to himself why he felt the need to go there. He had been hungry. And on autopilot.  
  
  
“You’ll have to take me there.” It’s said with such nonchalance it nearly makes him look closely at Steven. He manages instead to study the piece of pork waiting on the end of his chopsticks.  
  
  
“It’s a goddamn dive. Not much inside except some shitty old tables and beat to hell chairs. To be honest, I’ve never actually eaten in there.”  
  
  
“I’m not above eating in a dive, but feel free to bring more of this whenever.”  
  
  
He tries not to think about the implied invitation.  
  
  
He asks what Steven is doing to the boat and gets a full lecture on winter maintenance that goes over his head with words like bilges and barnacles and oil change ringing in his ears by the time the man is done. Frankly Zaeed's surprised Steven's his own mechanic, figuring he’d shop it out to someone who does it for a living. That he’s willing to get his hands dirty on impresses Zaeed.  
  
  
Steven tosses the leftovers in the fridge and hands him another beer. He taps the neck of his against Zaeed’s. “Happy New Year.”  
  
  
“Salut.”  
  
  
“Thanks for the meal.”  
  
  
“Not a problem. Payback for breakfast.”  
  
  
Steven grins and resumes his work while Max drops a somewhat beat-up tennis ball at Zaeed's feet. He throws it against the back wall where it bounces back nearly into the dog’s mouth. He throws the steadily wetter ball for a while, until Steven summons him over.  
  
  
“Hold this for me.”  
   
He holds a wrench in place while Steven torques something the other way. He makes the mistake of asking a question-- _What is this?_ \--and the next thing he knows it’s hours later and he’s helped from one end of the boat to the other, his sleeves rolled up and a stripe of grease rubbed into his jeans.  
  
  
Steven has some sort of boat wrap that he helps secure around it. Its worn from what looks like years of use. As they pull it tight, one of the seams rips and Steven curses under his breath. “Been meaning to get a new one,” he mutters.  
  
  
Even with the tear, it's tight enough so that the form of it shows from underneath, like the hint of a summer’s promise put to bed.  
  
  
“Thanks. I didn’t mean for you to work while you were here.”  
  
  
“No, it was…” What was it? Diverting? Engaging? For the last few hours, he’d thought nothing of Jessie and he’s both relieved and surprised. And not just a little guilty to feel that way. “...fine.”  
  
  
He meant to say ‘fun’. But he couldn’t seem to get the word out of his mouth.  
  
  
It’s nearly dark when they emerge from the boathouse, the last of the evening light disappearing on the horizon. The snow from last week has melted away already, but the air is cold with winter; sharp and stinging. Max leads them up the path toward the house and Zaeed gathers his breath to mutter a good-bye when Steven turns and says, “Fancy a dip?”  
  
  
He stops in his tracks, looking out at the cold water of the lake and wondering if the man has gone stark raving mad. He’s caught in the in-between: like hell he’s going to jump in that cold water, but the invitation holds promise of...something that he doesn’t necessarily want to turn down. “In that?” He nods towards the water, his voice more alarmed than he thinks it probably should be.  
  
  
Steven chuckles. “We can if you’d like. But I was thinking more along the lines of the hot tub.”  
  
  
He looks to where the man is pointing to the near end of the deck; a hot tub sits covered, humming away. “Didn’t bring trunks.”  
  
  
In the almost-dark, it’s hard to make out the look on Steven’s face. He thinks it’s a delighted leer. But he can’t be certain and he’s thinking the light is playing tricks. “Like that would stop you.” Okay. Well. That voice, pitched low and teasing at him so that he nearly leans closer. The entire afternoon has left him just a bit on edge, and now, that voice plays with him like intoxicating smoke.  
  
  
He doesn't let the fact that he has no trunks stop him.  
  
  
Of course he doesn't.  
  
  
~~~~~  
  
  
The cover is pulled back and Steven steps inside the house mumbling about wanting Zaeed to try something, Max following at his heels. Zaeed strips down and is in the warm, swirling water before the other man comes back with two high-ball glasses half full of ice and a bottle nearly full of dark gold liquid. A glass is pressed into his hand, a generous amount into of liquid poured into it, before Steven disappears behind him. He can hear the rustle of clothes, the zipper of his jeans and he buries his nose in the glass, breathing deeply to chase away the rising desire. It doesn’t really help.  
  
  
He has enough sense to appreciate the flavor when he takes a sip; oak and peat and a pleasant sort of burn that warms from the inside out as it goes down. “What is this?”  
  
  
“Twenty-year Kentucky bourbon.”  
  
  
“Damn fine stuff.”  
  
  
Movement next to him as Steven steps down into the water.  
  
  
He looks from the corner of his eye.  
  
  
Of course he looks.  
  
  
_Fuck._  
  
  
He sips the bourbon again, evening out his breath as that lovely arse sinks down under the water.  
  
  
“Jenkins gave it to me for Christmas,” Steven says as he settles. He stretches his arms out over the back of the tub, claiming ownership of his space. His fingertips nearly brush Zaeed’s shoulder.  
“Who? Farm boy? Is he even old enough to buy alcohol?”  
  
  
“Hush.”  
  
  
“I’m just saying—”  
  
  
“Hush, you.”  
  
  
He laughs into his glass and watches as Steven sighs and sinks further down, his head tipping back as he closes his eyes. On display are his throat, his Adam's apple, his jaw. Zaeed can imagine starting at the chin--the short bristles of his beard would prick at his lips--and work his way down and that thought alone makes him very glad for the distortion of the water and the darkness of the night. He sets the glass aside, the sides already sweating, and sinks down, wishing for a cigar.  
  
  
He feels a shift in the water as Steven moves, extending a leg out. His foot brushes his own, moves away, then slips in underneath to rest just barely touching his calf. He tenses, not wanting to jerk away, not sure what Steven is doing exactly. And perhaps wishing he’d do more than just barely touch.  
  
  
Perhaps he’s overthinking things.  
  
  
Perhaps he should just remember what Steven had said about friendship and leave it at that.  
  
  
Perhaps he’s losing his mind.  
  
  
“Zaeed.”  
  
  
“What.”  
  
  
“Would you relax? I can hear you thinking all the way over here.”  
  
  
He rolls his eyes and reaches for his glass, using it as an excuse to move his leg away. “Like you would know what goddamn thinking is, much less sounds like.”  
  
  
“Well, there’s also smoke coming out of your ears. That’s a pretty big clue you’re overtaxing yourself.”  
  
  
“Hey, Hackett.”  
  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
  
“Fuck off.”  
  
  
“Nice thing to say to the man who's hot tub you're laying around in.”  
  
  
“Nah. I say that to everyone.”  
  
  
Steven laughs, lifting his head to take a drink of his bourbon. They sit in silence for a while and he begins to think the other man going to let the subject drop when he says, “So I've noticed you've been on call a lot lately.”  
  
  
It's true. And it's not just lately. Since his return he's put in for as much on-call rotation as he's allowed. “Lost ground when I left. Need to build my patient base back up.”  
  
  
Steven scoffs and cracks his eyes open. “That's bullshit and you know it. For some reason, your patients are incredibly loyal. I'd wager most of them had all returned within six months of you being back.”  
  
  
He straightens his spine, feeling a surge of anger at Steven's intrusive questioning. “Why the fuck do you care what I do with my time?”  
  
  
“Because you're overworking yourself when you should be dropping back. Let kids like Alenko get their time in. Look. You want to be on call three, four days a week? Fine. But don't lie about why you're doing it.”  
  
  
“Meaning what?” He sets the glass down on the side of the tub with enough force to send what's left of the contents splashing out the sides.  
  
  
“Jesus, Zaeed. You act like you're the only person to have ever lost someone you've loved.”  
  
  
The words are jarring and to the point and he freezes; all the guilt, all the pain brought to the surface. He’s not prepared for this. He’s let his barriers down and that’s partly Steven’s doing--his easy-going nature disarming him--but mostly it’s his own fault. His own exhaustion from being constantly on guard against words like this.  
  
  
He’s poised for flight--nakedness be damned--when he remembers something Steven had said the night of the Christmas party. Something about it being for the best that he and Tadius were no longer together. Steven’s scowl mirrors his own, determination writ across his face. He’s not going to back down.  
  
  
Zaeed sighs and rubs his face down with his wet hands, combing his hair back with his fingers. “What happened? With you and Tadius?”  
  
  
Steven’s eyebrows relax slightly and he shakes his head. “Tadius is a military man through-and-through. Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell had been ingrained in him, and before that, Don’t Even Fucking Think It.” The words come out as if rehearsed, the memorized lines to tell family and friends. “He was never out to his family, no one on base knew, and hardly any of his friends knew either. I just couldn’t—” He looks up, blue eyes seeking out his own in the dimness of the patio lights. “I wanted to get married, once it became legal. And he could barely stand to think about the two of us living together, much less get married. Eleven years we were together, and for what?” Steven’s voice cracks; he clears his throat. “I couldn’t be someone’s dirty little secret anymore. And he was never going to change. I kept hoping. But eventually…” His voice trails off, leaving the rest unsaid.  
  
  
That this is still a wound is obvious, however much it might have scarred over. Zaeed can hear the anguish, the pain in his voice. And the bitterness as well, the lingering anger of promises broken. “How--When did this happen?”  
  
  
Steven shakes his head. He moves over next to him, reaching for the bottle of bourbon he’d set behind Zaeed’s head. He tops up both glasses and sits down next to him; closer. Their knees brush under the water. “Tadius put in for his transfer about the time you went on leave. Nearly three years ago, I guess.”  
  
  
He watches the other man’s Adam's apple bob as he drinks. “Had no idea. I’m sorry.”  
  
  
“You had other things on your mind,” he waves his glass.  
  
  
“And my head up my goddamn ass apparently,”  
  
  
“That too.” Steven smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He tips his head back relaxing enough that his knee doesn’t just barely touch his, it rests there; hard bone and soft flesh. “Been a couple guys since, but…”  
  
  
“Not the same?”  
  
  
“No. Not the same.” He sighs, heavy and loud, nearly a groan. “What about you? Tried getting back out there?”  
  
  
“Naw. I...can't even…” Zaeed tips his head back. It’s a clear night; the stars are out, shining on their black stage. Somewhere across the water music echoes; Don Henley’s voice crooning ‘ _Take it easy, Take it easy’_. He thinks that’s pretty sound advice and relents his rigid posture, letting his knee rest fully on Steven’s. His heart thuds heavy at the touch, but he doesn’t move away.  
  
  
“I see her,” he says softly after a while. The whiskey is a pleasant burn through his veins; loosening his thoughts, his words. “Just—” he waves his hand off to the side “--in my periphery. Her hair is sort of...waving, like she's standing in a breeze somewhere warm.” He sees the curls of her dark, wild hair moving as if stirred by a soft wind. Her light brown skin glows from the sun, hazel eyes smiling gently. But it’s all blurred. Reflection upon reflection though distorted, waving glass and only partially revealed; the knuckle of a finger, the crease of her inner elbow, the soft underside of her breast. The whole of her is gone, leaving only these few remainders and he aches to think someday he will wake up and those will be gone too; ashes blown over the rocks.  
  
  
“All the time?”  
  
  
“Some of the time.” Not once did he notice her this afternoon. But she's there now, waiting. Always waiting.  
  
  
“Zaeed.” It's the concern in his voice that makes him look over and he blinks rapidly several times, his throat tight. Steven's hand lands on his shoulder, wet and warm. “You have friends.” A statement. Not a question. _You have friends._ “You don't have to go through this alone. You never have. You never will.”  
  
  
His fingers clutch the glass in a tight grip. So much so that he's afraid the glass will break, shatter into the water, cut open his hand. He can nearly see the darkness of the blood, feel the warmth of it running over his palm. He breathes deeply, sets the glass aside. His eyes land on Max lying inside the house on the other side of the the sliding glass door. “Why is Max inside?”  
  
  
“Because otherwise he’ll jump in the tub. Are you okay?” The hand on his shoulder grips firmly, squeezing to get his attention. “Zaeed—”  
  
  
He wants to move away.  
  
  
He wants to move closer.  
  
  
He can’t decide between either so he stays firmly planted where he is.  
  
  
“Yeah. I just—” _didn’t expect to be talking about this, don’t want to talk about this_. “I’m fine.”  
  
  
“It’s damn obvious you’re not fine. I’m an ass of the worst sort for not saying anything before and I apologize for that. So I’ll say it now. You want to talk about her, about what you’re going through, about anything. I’m here. Whenever you need.”  
  
  
He wants to ask _Why?_ But nods his head instead; because it’s expected, because perhaps he welcomes the invitation. If there is a part of himself that hates the idea of showing his vulnerabilities and admitting how difficult the last few years have been, so there is also a part that yearns to show the crack in his armor, to admit that perhaps he is tired of carrying the weight of his grief, that he is infuriated by how Jessie took herself from him and left him alone in this shithole of a world. He sighs, his chest heavy.  
  
  
The hand on his shoulder gives a final squeeze before it drops away. His nerves burn so hot from the touch he expects to look down to find Steven’s handprint on his skin. In fact he hasn’t looked away from the dog, who appears to be sleeping, sprawled out on the wood floor. “He jumps in the hot tub?”  
  
  
“Yeah. He loves it. But his hair clogs up the filter. Alright, come on.” Steven stands quickly, water sluicing off his body as he steps up onto the deck.  
  
  
“What now?”  
  
  
“I think it’s time for that dip in the lake. We both could use a cold slap in the face.”  
  
  
“Speak for yourself. I’m not going in that goddamn lake.”  
  
  
Steven throws a towel at him; it drapes over his head, one corner dropping into the water. “So. You’re chicken. Figures.”  
  
  
“I’m not chicken—”  
  
  
“Chicken!”  
  
  
“Christ. Really? You’re going to dare me?”  
  
  
“If I have to I will question your manhood, ridicule you for driving a sports car as overcompensation for your penis size, and make fun of your choice in shoes.”  
  
  
“Fucking hell—” He stands, throwing the towel back at Steven, whose own towel is wrapped around his waist. “I draw the line at my shoes, asshole.”  
  
  
The path is riddled with rocks that gouge into the bottom of his bare feet. It hobbles any sort of running he might have attempted and Steven passes him quickly as the towel hits him in the face again. He follows down to the dock, gathering speed going past the boathouse door. He drops the towel, hopping over Steven’s that he’s already let fall. An arse glows white in the dim light, suspended for one brief moment in front of him as Steven hollers and canon-balls off the end of the dock. He has one brief second in which his brain questions the wiseness of this action.  
  
  
He pushes that thought away and leaps, off to the side of where he’d seen Steven go down.  
  
  
The water is goddamn fucking cold and he lets everyone know it when he surfaces. It’s a barbaric yell that Steven echoes and adds to it a laugh of such freedom that he wouldn’t mind hearing again. Even as his muscles contract with the sudden temperature change, the tightness in his chest releases, washing off him and dissipating into the dark, cold reaches of the lake.  
  
  
It’s not until days later he notices that Jessie is gone from his peripheral vision. Which is not to say that he hasn’t thought about her every day, but she’s not hounding his every step like before.  
  
  
He feels sorrow.  
  
  
He feels guilt.  
  
  
But mostly he feels relief.


	5. Time; It's Time to Live

So it goes through January: Steven often knocking on his door at the end of the day wondering what he’s doing after work, or Friday night does he want to go to the ball game, or there’s a new restaurant does he want to try it out? He puts in for being on-call less--cuts it back to two or three nights a week instead of three or four--and finds he doesn’t mind so much. If they have lunch at the same time, Steven seeks him out in the doctor's kitchen, sliding down in the chair next to him with a sigh and a grin that makes him think too hard about capturing that grin with his mouth. He finds himself looking for Steven as he walks from office to exam pod. Occasionally he’ll catch a glimpse as he walks down the hallway with his head bent over his tablet, or standing talking with Jenkins, his profile in sharp relief.  
  
  
If Steven’s eyes catch his, if he nods and smiles and Zaeed nods back, and if his heart speeds up a notch because of it, then so be it.  
  
  
He swears to drink less coffee because surely it must be the goddamn caffeine.  
  
  
Kasumi notices. Because there’s not much that escapes her eagle eyes anyway. And certainly not Steven Hackett leaning on Zaeed’s door jam, blocking her way into his office. And not on just the one occasion.  
  
  
She holds her tongue for several weeks until she’s practically bursting after Steven has left--inviting him to a Super Bowl party at his house--lingering longer than usual after Zaeed had pointed to the extra chair by his desk so at least Kasumi can move freely.  
  
  
“So. Spill, boss.” She plops herself down in the seat Steven had just vacated, leaning forward with far too much eagerness as far as he’s concerned. “What’s going on with you two?”  
  
  
He turns his attention to his tablet, going over notes for the next day’s patients. “No idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
  
“Oh, come on.” She holds up her hand and starts ticking off fingers. “Hanging around your door like a lovesick teenager. Inviting you out to dinner or whatever at night, and especially on the weekends. Looking at you like you’re covered in whipped cream. He might as well be holding a boombox over his head playing _In Your Eyes_ , it’s so obvious. And you’ve cut back your on-call hours, which means either you’ve suddenly decided you don’t need the money anymore or you want to free up your evenings for other things besides working your boring ass off.”  
  
  
He doesn’t say anything, staring at the patient chart glowing softly on his tablet. So he’s not the only one who’s noticed Steven’s change in behaviour and what it might mean. He doesn’t know about the whipped cream, but he does know the gravity has shifted between them. Who’s doing the pulling and who’s being pulled in he couldn’t say.  
  
  
“So spill. You freeing your nights up so you can spend more time with him? Because if you lie to me and say ‘No’, I will get a mirror and show you the look on your face the next time he comes around.” She leans closer, sincerity in her threat. He has no doubt she would do just that. But—  
  
  
“Nothing is going on. We’re just...friends.”  
  
  
She leans back, crossing her arms over her chest. “Uh huh.”  
  
  
He tosses the tablet aside. “Kasumi—”  
  
  
“Boss—” she imitates his tone, stern and disapproving.  
  
  
“What do you want me to say? There’s nothing to tell, and even if there were, why would I tell you?”  
  
  
“Because that’s what friends do, you ass. They share their lives. Why do I have to teach this to a fifty-two year old man?” She sighs and throws up her hands, so done with him. “I love you, but you’re an idiot.” She considers him a moment, puzzling something over in that devious brain of hers. “Alright,” she says finally. “If you’re so adamant about nothing going on between you, then I have someone you should meet. She works with Keiji, fresh from Japan. She’s beautiful and smart and sexy and you seriously need to get your rebound cherry popped.”  
  
  
He chokes at her words as she continues on, “I’m serious. Has there been anyone since Jessie? You don’t even have to say anything, I can see it on your big stupid face.” She shakes a finger at him. “You’re going out for dinner with me and Keiji and Minako on Friday night and there’s nothing you can do about it. Deal?”  
  
  
He blinks at her. “Do I have a choice?”  
  
  
“No. Wear something nice.”  
  
  
Minako is indeed beautiful and smart and sexy, full of sharp wit; brazen as she pets her hand down his thigh under the table. By the end of dinner he understands why Kasumi wanted to set him up with her; she is Jessie Lite. But all the qualities that he found so endearing in his wife only seem to fall flat in this other woman who seems garish as polished brass. He can find no substance beneath the exterior, no depth of emotion. Only the shine that nearly blinds him.  
  
  
After dinner, he walks Minako to her car, trying to find something about her to like. She hooks her arm through his elbow and he resists the urge to pull away, her hand like a claw digging into his suit jacket sleeve. At her car, she kisses him and her mouth is too wet and too loose, all tongue trying to get down his throat. He pushes her hands away only to feel her palm him through his trousers, finds him uninterested.  
  
  
Her shrug of indifference as she gets into her car tells him all he needs to know.  
  
  
The kiss, however, leaves him dissatisfied. Knowing how good it could be he realizes how much he has missed kissing someone, being kissed in return. And how much he wished her mouth were someone else’s. Someone with a graying goatee that would prick at his skin. Someone he’s damned sure would not kiss too wet or too loose or try to shove his tongue down Zaeed's throat in the first minute.  
  
  
Minako should have stuck around another minute, he thinks. She’d find him interested now. Unfortunately for her it would be for someone else.  
  
  
~~~~~  
  
  
When he pulls into the driveway, there are quite a few other cars parked at Steven’s house, about half of which he recognizes--David Anderson’s BMW, Karin Chakwas’ Benz, Mordin’s Tesla. Steven takes the six-pack from his hands at the door while Zaeed kneels down and lets Max lick his face, ruffling the fur around his neck. “Hey, Max.”  
  
  
“Sure. Greet the dog first.”  
  
  
“At least he wants to lick my face.” He grins up at Steven, not quite sure where that came from and not really caring, especially when Steven coughs out a laugh while his cheeks turn pink.  
  
  
“Who says he’s the only one?” Steven’s quiet question rings in his ear, spoken behind his back as he walks toward the great room. He turns, only to see Steven retreat toward the kitchen.  
  
  
Damn fine ass in those jeans.  
  
  
He turns his attention back to the room and the people in it. Karin and Mordin have their heads together as usual, David and Kaylee standing close, but not too close. He recognizes Dr. Garret Bryson, who’s on the board at the hospital, but not the others.  
  
  
Steven steps up beside him and passes over an opened beer. “Come on, I want you to meet someone.”  
  
  
He guides him toward a woman about their age who’s talking with David and Kaylee. “Sorry to interrupt. Amanda, I’d like you to meet Zaeed.” She turns and smiles, her eyes sparkling with interest. “Amanda Kenson, Zaeed Massani. Amanda is a very good friend of mine. We met many years ago in college. She’s an archeology professor at the University of Chicago.”  
  
  
“Long drive for a party,” he says. Her hand is warm and dry, her handshake firm. And her attention on him singular.  
  
  
“Well, it’s been awhile since I’ve been down this way to see Steven. I needed an excuse. So…” She steps closer to him. “Steven tells me you’re a pediatrician?”  
  
  
The man in question has gone off to answer the door--Kaidan arriving with a bottle of whiskey and a sheepish grin--leaving him with this woman. That Steven is telling his friend about him he finds mildly disturbing. Fresh off the debacle from Friday night, he has the thought that he’s being set up again. But then he catches sight of her wedding ring, and her face holds only curiosity and interest so he relaxes somewhat. “I--er. No. Orthopedic surgeon. I just specialize in pediatric ortho. I find kids much more amiable than adults.”  
  
  
“Ha! I see—”  
  
  
“Massani!” Mordin’s voice calls out from across the room. “You studied with Doctor Ponseti, yes? Come settle debate.”  
  
  
He excuses himself, somewhat grateful for the interruption. He has the feeling that for some reason that woman intends to give him a grilling and he’s only too glad to duck out from under her intense regard.  
  
  
During the game, his attention is hardly on the big screen, casting surreptitious glances at the tall man who moves around the room with calm assurance. And at any rate, he much prefers rugby to football. There’s too much padding on the players, too much stopping and starting of action. But the game is a good one, too close to call for much of the game. Steven has a spread of food on a sideboard and a bar to match and he finds his body pleasantly humming after his third sampling of the excellent scotch Kaidan had brought. At halftime he finds himself somehow in a conversation about running with Kaidan and two other blokes--a buzz-cut cop named Bailey and a poncy Brit who told him to call him Coats. From what he can suss out the three of them are all running buddies with Steven.  
  
  
Max licks his fingers, which is all the diversion he needs to escape from a discussion of arch supports. “Need to go outside, boy? Yeah, me too.”  
  
  
Max escorts him to the sliding glass door that leads out to the patio, passing Anderson and Bryson on the way. He takes a deep breath of cold, fresh air and watches Max circle a spot on the snow. He hears the door open and close behind him, light steps that he already recognizes approach.  
  
  
“You alright?” Steven asks.  
  
  
“Yeah, just...needed some air.” He leans on the patio railing, looking out over the frozen lake.  
  
  
Dusk is already falling, turning the world the brief winter blue of evening. Max, having finished his business, rolls in the snow, pushing himself nose first with what can only be described as gleeful abandon. He comes up panting, shaking the snow from his coat, and bounds over to them.  
  
  
“You don't like people much, do you?” Steven leans over the railing next to him, fingers folded together.  
  
  
“As a whole? No.” He turns and studies his profile; the long nose and firm chin, the scar that cuts his cheek, the highly kissable lips. “Certain individuals are alright though. That lot in there,” he thumbs backward, indicating the people inside, “alright in small doses. Who’s that Coats fellow? Kind of an ass.”  
  
  
“Elliot? He’s alright once you get to know him. Brain the size of a MAC truck from what I understand. Retired from the British military and works private sector security of some sort. All very hush-hush.”  
  
  
“Huh.”  
  
  
“So you picked a strange profession to go into with that attitude, not liking people.” He turns and grins at him, eyes searching his face, lingering at his mouth before settling on his mismatched eyes.  
  
  
He laughs. “Don't I know it. Jessie always says—” He stops himself short, swallowing down the ache that has risen suddenly in his chest. Steven waits him out, doesn't encourage him to go on. And maybe that's why he finishes: because he doesn't have to. “She could never figure it out either.”  
  
  
“So why did you?”  
  
  
He shakes his finger at him. “Ah no. That's a long story that involves this—” he points at the scar on his face “--and requires you buying me dinner. And expensive alcohol.”  
  
  
Steven's grin broadens. “Pretty sure that can be arranged.”  
  
  
Not for the first time that day, he finds himself focused in on Steven's mouth and wondering exactly what those lips feel like, what kind of kiss he can coax from them.  
  
  
“Can I ask you something? Personal?” The other man's voice dips lower, not quite a whisper, but something for his ears only. Like Max is going to tell secrets.  
  
  
“Can’t stop you from asking. No guarantee I’m gonna answer though.”  
  
  
“Fair enough. It's just I haven't been able to figure something out and I'm really curious—”  
  
  
“Hey, you two! Third quarter’s starting!” Amanda calls from the doorway and they both turn to look over their shoulders, nearly knocking heads in the process. Zaeed doesn't remember hearing the sound of the door opening, but thinks she looks like she's been standing there for longer than just opening the door and shouting entails.  
  
  
Steven pushes off from the railing, Max following after, but then he stops and turns. “Don't just run off after the game, okay? This has been bugging me for a while.”  
  
  
Zaeed shrugs. “Sure.”  
  
  
He's not sure if he should feel pleased or not that Steven Hackett has been puzzling his head over him. Damned straight he's not going to leave before he finds out about what.  
  
  
He's had too much to drink already so he grabs a soda and camps out in a corner for a rest of the game, listening to Bailey hark on about his ex-wife. _You fool,_ he thinks. _You complete and utter fool_. It's obvious the cop still loves her the way he goes on. _Apologize for whatever fucked up shit you did, tell her you love her, and get her back._  
  
  
Some people never seem able to express their appreciation for what they have until it's gone.  
  
  
He knows this from experience.  
  
  
~~~~~  
  
  
He and Amanda are the last of the guests. They roam through the house picking up beer bottles and empty plates while Steven puts the leftovers away.  
  
  
“Well, gentlemen. I have a long drive tomorrow. I'm heading for bed. Steven could I have your help with something?” She reaches out a hand. “Doctor Massani, it was very nice to meet you.”  
  
  
“Zaeed, please.” He shakes her hand and watches the two of them disappear upstairs where Amanda is camped out in a guest room.  
  
  
He busies himself loading the dishwasher, cleaning up the few trays that don't fit. He lets Max out and dries his hands as he watches the dog through the closed door. A cold wind has picked up, but the sky is clear, bright stars glimmering brighter out here where there's less city light to dim them. Max whines at him and he slides the door open and shut quickly.  
  
  
“You finished the dishes? I could kiss you.” Steven deposits a few more beer bottles on the counter and rambles on about how he hates washing dishes and disputes with his maid about it, but he doesn't really hear him. He tosses the dish towel aside and turns, leaning back slightly on the kitchen island.  
  
  
“You could. Kiss me,” he says, interrupting. The words are out of his mouth and he's not really sure how, but they hover in the air between them dancing on the eddies of their breath and Max's wagging tail, spelled out in individual letters: y-o-u c-o-u-l-d k-i-s-s m-e.  
  
  
It's possible he stops breathing at the look Steven gives him. “What?” He straightens from replacing the beer bottles in a case and turns, pinning him with those blue eyes that are nearly like swimming in the ocean; and just as likely to drag him under into a deadly current.  
  
  
His heart hammers, coming back to life in a rush of adrenaline. “You...could kiss me. If you were inclined to...do so.” He stutters over the words, certain he's making a mistake and wondering if tomorrow he'll even be able to look the man in the eye at work. Maybe he should call in sick—  
  
  
Steven takes a step, and then another, toward him. “What are you saying?” His voice is gruff, pitched low. But not angry, just inquisitive. Suggestive even. Which gives him the small amount of hope he needs to continue.  
  
  
“I would--I mean...Goddamnit, Steven—”  
  
  
The other man chuckles softly, still advancing-- _stalking_ \--toward him which makes him feel somewhere between wanting to run away and needing to surge forward. He holds his ground--for now--crossing his arms and trying his damnedest to not look like he feels: a wreck of nervous energy.  
  
  
Steven stops a few feet away for a moment and then invades his space, their eyes locked until those blue eyes flick down to his mouth and back up again. But then some thought occurs to him. Zaeed knows the moment it happens. Steven's grin falls away. Doubt creeps up into his eyes. He takes a half step back and Zaeed finds he has to push the disappointment down; way, way down. He wills his face into a stony mask.  
  
  
“Zaeed—”  
  
  
“Goddamnit. Shouldn’t have said that. Ignore me—”  
  
  
“No. Don’t. Just—” he rubs his hand through his hair, sighing with frustration. “I need to know something. Because it’s been driving me nuts since Christmas. You hold your cards so close, I can’t tell if you’re in the closet or just fucking with me, or what's going on and I can’t go through that again. I won’t be another damn dirty secret—”  
  
  
“I’m bi—”  
  
  
“--and I’ve been trying not to get my hopes up but—”  
  
  
“Steven. I’m bi. Don’t care who fucking knows it. Not that it’s anyone’s goddamn business.”  
  
  
“You...what?”  
  
  
“Bi, Steven. Bisexual. I like women. And I like men. Equally. Well. Some more than others, of course.”  
  
  
“But…”  
  
  
He pushes off the counter and takes a small step forward, hope growing in his chest. Enough to tease and flirt. “Tell me about these hopes you’ve been trying to not get up. Better yet, tell me about something that has been ‘getting up’.”  
  
  
“Zaeed.” Salt and Pepper eyebrows draw down, but there's a smirk at the corner of Steven's mouth. A smirk he wants to place his lips on.  
  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
  
Steven takes a step forward. So does Zaeed. Advancing until they meet in the middle, separated by mere inches, so close he can feel puffs of Steven’s breath. He’s gently cradling the man’s elbows. Tips his head. Moves even closer so that their noses slide along each other. He feels the hard plane of Steven’s chest against his own rising and falling as he breathes. He pauses when Steven doesn’t say anything more, but smiles instead.  
  
  
“What, Steven?” As he speaks, his lips barely graze the other man’s, the contact brief and tantalizing.  
  
  
“I can’t...remember.” Hands at his hips grip slightly, encouraging him closer until their lips meet, soft and light, a greeting that spans the time of several heart beats. He sinks into it, into him, their mouths opening together, kissing deeper. He feels the ridge of his scar under his lips, the prickle of his beard, the hard muscles of the man’s arms under his hands.  
  
  
He’s forgotten this, how much he enjoys this. Jessie would practically purr in his arms; soft and yielding until her claws came out. But this hardness, this strength; an immovable force matched against his own. He realizes he has missed this. He wants more; needs more. His hands slide around Steven’s back, feels the other man’s hand on the back of his head, kissing him harder, his tongue flirting with his own.  
  
  
He moans; fists tightening in Steven's shirt. Heavy breaths echo each other; a rush of air up from their lungs, hitting the other's cheek with a soft warmth. His mouth opens under his and Steven wastes no time, invades with his tongue, his teeth nipping his lips. Slowly the pressure relaxes, the kiss slows until they gulp air, foreheads knocked together.  
  
  
“Hng…” Steven kisses his cheek, lipping along the scar. “You're really good at that.”  
  
  
Zaeed pulls back; grins. “So are you, goddamnit.”  
  
  
An eyebrow arches at that, but he says nothing. Only grins back for a moment before kissing him again, slower and gentler and longer until he can hardly think of anything beyond the press of the man's body and all the points of interest from top to bottom. There is one worth exceptional note and it pleases him no end to feel that growing hardness rub along his own, even through their two layers of jeans.  
  
  
He resists the urge to grind and instead pulls away with the reluctance of a man who has been journeying for an age and finally finds safe shelter. He is sorely tempted to strip the man of his clothes right here. And the look in Steven's eye tells him he'd reciprocate with enthusiasm. But—  
  
  
“I should let you go.”  
  
  
“You should?”  
  
  
“Hm...yeah,” he casts a look toward the ceiling. “You have a guest and—” he leans in to whisper in his ear “--I want to make you yell my name.” He laughs darkly at Steven's moan, the tightening of his fingers on his hips. He takes a step back and then another until there is only electric current between them; the static build up of heat and friction.  
  
  
Steven's lips are red and swollen--he's damned sure his own are the same--his eyes lidded as he looks him up and down, his gaze lingering at his crotch for several beats before they lock with his own. “You said something about dinner?”  
  
  
Zaeed's grin is involuntary. “Did at that. Gonna take me on a date, Dr. Hackett?”  
  
  
“It crossed my mind.”  
  
  
“On call tomorrow and Friday.”  
  
  
“Wednesday then?”  
  
  
“Alright.”  
  
  
They’re both grinning like fools and he can't say for Steven, but his own heart is thudding in his chest. Has been since Steven first stepped up close to him what seems like an eternity ago. “So. Fine.” He grabs his coat before he can change his mind--hell, he's already changed his mind. Before he can act on it more like. Steven follows him to the door, Max trailing after them. He doesn't linger, bracing against the chill of the winter wind that's blown in. He shuts the door gently, walking quickly to his car.  
  
  
_Always leave them wanting more._ Who said that? He can't remember and it doesn't matter. Going by the look on Steven's face when he had shut the door, they were a bloody genius whoever they were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Ignacio Ponseti was a physician specializing in orthopedics, who developed what's known as the ponseti method for resetting clubfoot. He was a professor at the University of Iowa. Wiki page is [ here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ignacio_Ponseti).


	6. Open Your Eyes and Breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I mentioned that potionsmaster is the best beta ever?

The Dark Star Lounge is filled with intimate booths of luxurious brown leather seats lit with a single candle. Uniformed staff move quietly and discreetly beneath a ceiling of iridescent stars while a lone pianist plays jazz classics on a small stage. It is a world apart; expensive and worth every penny.  
  
  
The maitre d’, formal and stiff in his tuxedo, is new to him. He hasn't been here since before Jessie died. He gives Hackett's name and the man bows--Zaeed wouldn’t have been surprised if he had clicked his heels--and leads him to a booth in the corner where Steven is already waiting, head bent over a large board menu. He catches a fleeting glimpse of the fine curve of his neck and the soft, downy hair that grows just behind his ear before he slides down into the seat opposite.  
  
  
Steven grins at him across the table and his heart stutters.  
  
  
The past couple of days had been disorienting. His head has been in two places--work and the thought of this man--and he found himself avoiding Steven when he could because of that. Which didn’t make matters any better, but gave him an excuse to bury himself in the paperwork he needed to catch up on, with no goading from a much surprised Kasumi.  
  
  
When Steven had stopped by his office the day before to ask did the next night still work and to tell him the time and place, he found himself envisioning all manner of things he’d like to do right then, starting with shutting the door and pushing the man up against it. And from the glimmer in Steven’s eye, he wasn’t the only one with such ideas.  
  
  
Even now, sitting across from him, he forces himself to concentrate, studying the list of wines as if his life depends on it and trying his best not to notice the heat that Steven is casting his way. He has only limited success. He looks up just as the sommelier arrives to find Steven watching him, blue eyes intent. When the sommelier finally leaves--they had agreed on a bottle of chardonnay--the other man leans back, relaxing against the supple leather seat.  
  
  
“Do you know how hard it’s been to not jump you in the hallway at work?”  
  
  
He’s surprised by the admission, his eyebrows raise up as far as they can and then some. Clearly the man isn’t one to play games, and that suits him just fine. “Oh?”  
  
  
“If your nurse hadn’t come in when she did—” Because Kasumi had, of course, when Steven had hovered there just inside his office door, looking like he’d rather stay than go. She’d bustled in to hand him the tablet he’d left in the pod, looking very pleased with herself before she’d disappeared quietly.  
  
  
“What. What would you have done?” he asks with a smirk, because no way in hell is Steven Hackett the type to—  
  
  
“Bend you backwards over your desk and kiss the living daylights out of you.”  
  
  
Or perhaps he is.  
  
  
“You’re all talk.” He grins and sees the answer on Steven’s face; feels the hard toe of the man’s shoe rub him on the calf as he stretches his leg under the table, and then leaves it there, deliberate and enticing. He remembers the same touch from that night in the hot tub, the barely-there feel of skin and water just grazing his leg.  
  
  
“I thought I’d refrain from mauling you in front of everyone else in the practice. But if you insist, I’m sure we can give them all something to gossip about.”  
  
  
“None of their fucking business,” Zaeed says. He scowls at the thought. He and Jessie were already married when they’d come to the practice. It was common knowledge from day one that they were a couple. The thought of anyone beyond Kasumi caring about his love life, and speculating about who he might be involved with from within the practice isn’t something he’d thought about before this. He’s not crazy about the idea. “Perhaps we should actually figure out if we can even stand each other first.”  
  
  
Steven laughs softly, but says nothing as the sommelier arrives to pour their wine, followed quickly by the waiter who takes their order. By the time the dust has settled around them the mood has shifted and Steven withdraws his foot to sit up straighter. He lifts his glass. “Here's to figuring out if we can stand each other.”  
  
  
It is, in fact, a pleasant evening. Steven tells him about growing up in Buenos Aires--Zaeed hadn't known he’d had been born in Argentina--how he'd never known his father; had come to the States as a teenager with his grandparents after his mother had died to live closer to his aunt. Steven doesn’t go into detail about her death, but he can see the pain of loss on his face, hear it in his voice. Steven rubs thoughtlessly at the scar that cuts his cheek and lip; the first time Zaeed’s seen him do that in all the time he’s known him and he wonders at that, but doesn’t voice the question. Survivor’s guilt isn’t something for polite dinner conversation.  
  
  
By the time they’ve killed the bottle of wine and the table has been cleared of their meal, he’s feeling a pleasant hum in his veins. He feels the press of shoe on the back of his leg again and is surprised at the rush of desire that surges from that one simple touch. He studies Steven across the table, suspecting there is far more to him than the cool, commanding exterior he puts out to the world. For himself, he’s never bothered--what you see is what you get with him as far as he’s concerned. The promise of layers--public Steven and private Steven and what that all entails--intrigues him, lures him in like a dark cave discovered in an open field.  
  
  
He answers the press of his foot with a raised eyebrow, about to reach his hand across the table when the waiter reappears with the offer of dessert. They pass, but order brandy. He wants to linger, wants to draw the other man out even further.  
  
  
And apparently Steven does as well. “Alright, Zaeed. Are you buttered up enough?”  
  
  
He swirls the brandy in its glass. He knows what the man is asking, braces himself against the memories he has long pushed aside. “Vido. Vido Santiago is ultimately the reason I'm a doctor. And he can rot in hell for all I care. Goddamn bastard.”  
  
  
Steven's eyebrows raise, but he says nothing as he leans forward, chin propped on the palm of his hand, elbow resting on the table.  
  
  
He sighs. “Vido and I were friends ever since I was six and he was eight and I punched some kid who was trying to steal his GI Joe action figure.” He waves his fingers, brushes the memory aside as unimportant. “Thick as thieves, we were. Ran roughshod over anyone in our way, terrorized the entire neighborhood. By the time he was thirteen and I was eleven we had started our own gang: the Blue Suns.” He pulls his collar down and rubs the tattoo on his neck. “That was us. We were little shits. Punks. The streets of South London weren’t safe, so we ran protection rackets mostly. Little bit of thieving. Little bit of running errands for this Blood Pack gang that had been around longer. Nothing to get us into too much trouble. By the time I was fifteen I'd dropped out of school, left home--no big surprise there. You might be surprised to know I liked school, but home was a hell hole. No way could I stay there with my—” he exhales softly, halting the tangent he's about to go off onto. He takes a sip of brandy and pauses to appreciate it as it goes down.  
  
  
He looks up into Steven’s eyes. “Anyway, we grew that gang right and proper; captains, lieutenants. About thirty of us all told guarding twenty blocks of business and homes. Even made nice with the local coppers. That was my idea—” he points at Steven. “Vido thought it was a waste of time, but it saved all of our asses on a weekly basis.  
  
  
“Vido kept wanting to get too big too fast, starts bringing up how much more money we could be making we start running drugs, getting into pimping out some of the local girls.” He shakes his head. “Ass. I blocked him as best I could, but one day he just took it on himself to go ahead. Brings in all this cash and I told him there was no way in hell I'd put up with that shite. So he said fine. Let me walk away. Surprised the shit outta me, I'll tell you that.  
  
  
“Three days later, he jumped me in the street. Turned my men against me.” He grits his teeth for a moment, suppressing the anger that threatens to boil over. It’s been a long time since he’s even let himself think about all of that. It’s so far in the past and he generally likes to think that he’s over it, but the anger is there just under the surface even after all these years. “Took six of them to hold me down.” He doesn’t hide the pride in his voice at that. He had fought them like a demon, staring down the pistol Vido had pointed at him, knowing what was coming and fighting every second. His heart beats harder, faster and he clenches a fist on the table. He can’t look away from Steven’s gaze, his brow drawn down in concern. “Fought them the whole way. Bruised ribs, arm broke in two places, hairline fractures in one leg. Then the fucker shot me in the face and walked away like it was nothing. Left me lying there on the sidewalk like trash; bleeding out into the gutter.”  
  
  
“How old were you?”  
  
  
“Seventeen.” He sighs. “Shoulda been smoking in the alley and hanging out in the local with my mates. Instead I wake up in hospital, barely alive with my mum wringing her hands raw. So my nurse is this guy I recognize from the neighborhood, Trevor Martin. He’d gone off a while back, disappeared. Didn’t really think anything of it. You know the way kids are; people come and go from your life and you take notice only if it affects you somehow. Turns out he had gone off to university. Knew me right off, gave me hell for nearly getting dead.” He laughs, but there’s no joy in it. The last of his brandy sits in his glass; just barely half a swallow and it’s gone.  
  
  
“You want another?” Steven points at the empty glass. His own is only half gone, almost as if he’s forgotten it’s even there.  
  
  
He does. It’s going down damned easy. But he shakes his head. “Better not. School night.”  
  
  
Steven nods, long fingers turn his brandy thoughtfully. Zaeed watches the motion, mesmerized for a moment. “If it hadn’t been for Trevor, I probably would have ended up in jail or worse. He convinced me to go back to school. Helped me figure out I had a talent for science, helped tutor me when I got stuck. Bastard had the patience of a saint.”  
  
  
Steven blinks and smiles. “Had to to put up with you, I’m guessing.”  
  
  
“To put it mildly.” He waves his hand. “There was an ortho surgeon there, while I was recovering, helped put me back together as far as my arm and leg went. Deeper I got into thinking about medicine, the more I thought I wanted to do that. Help kids.” He dips his head, toys with the empty glass. “Don’t know how I tricked them, but somehow I ended up studying under Ponseti at Iowa after my stint at med school.” He shakes his head. “The man was bloody brilliant.”  
  
  
“So I understand.”  
  
  
“That’s where Jessie and I met. She was a nurse in pediatrics.” The air around her had practically shimmered the first time he’d seen her. First day there, everything slightly askew. She had smiled at him over a chart and his world had dropped out below him, sent him reeling into an abyss of her; only her.  
  
  
He pauses and looks back up to see Steven carefully studying him. “What?”  
  
  
Steven waits several beats, never taking his eyes off him. “I think…” he starts eventually, but falters and swirls the liquid in his glass. “Having that happen. It had to have destroyed any sense of trust you had had in others,” he speaks carefully, as if feeling his way through the words. “Would make it hard to trust people after that.” He pauses, fingertips tapping the base of his glass. He looks up briefly, measuring Zaeed’s reaction. “It...explains a few things about you.”  
  
  
He finds his jaw clenched, unaware he’d become tense at the words. No one has ever put that thought in front of him before, laid his psyche out on a platter to show him his guts--raw and bloody and scarred. He wants to back away, not look. Cover it over and pretend it never happened. But there’s something in Steven’s eyes--a tenderness, a lack of judgement--that brings him back. He chews the idea over. Even though he denies it, he knows it for the truth. Ever since the person he thought to be his best friend tried to kill him, his entire life after he’s only let in a select few. Those deemed worthy. There are not many.  
  
  
He shrugs, swallowing down defensiveness and a pigheaded need to deny. The only reason for doing so because of the man sitting across from him; something about Steven that makes him willing to let his guard down. He doesn’t know why, or how it’s happened. Steven Hackett feels... _safe_. Safe and solid in a way he’d never had with Jessie; or anyone else for that matter. It’s a terrifying and thrilling feeling.  
  
  
Zaeed opens his mouth to respond, but he doesn’t know what to say; his mind a black canvas of contradictions. And then Steven brushes his fingertip over the back of his hand, so quickly and softly it’s already a ghost of a feeling before he pulls his hand away. “Hey. Sorry. I shouldn’t have—”  
  
  
“No. It’s fine.” He takes a deep breath, lets it out in a long puff of air. “You don’t pull any punches, do you?”  
  
  
“Something you should appreciate as a boxer.” Steven says, a wry grin curling the corner of his mouth. He tries to not think about touching his own lips to that curl, pressing his chest to the warmth and hardness of Steven’s, laying his hands on his hips, holding him close while their bodies sway to the beat of their hearts.  
  
  
He does not succeed.  
  
  
“What happened to Vido?”  
  
  
He blinks at the change of subject, brings himself back into the moment. “Hell if I know. Dead and gone probably. Life in a goddamn gang isn’t exactly conducive to a long life. Why?”  
  
  
“Thought I might send him a thank you note. Without him, you wouldn’t be sitting here.”  
  
  
He grins at that and watches Steven finish off his brandy. The waiter appears with the bill and he checks the time, surprised that it’s after ten. The restaurant has nearly emptied, a few people still sitting around the bar, a couple with their heads together in a booth. He’s amazed to realize the last three hours have passed in a blur as they sat in their own little bubble.  
  
  
Steven walks close enough to him that their shoulders brush as they make their way through the nearly empty parking lot. It’s light enough through their coats to barely register and yet is all the more thrilling because of that; just a soft brushing of wool on leather. Knuckles graze the back of his hand and for a brief moment Steven’s fingers catch his thumb in a gentle grip. He crooks his thumb in response before taking out his keys.  
  
  
Steven waits as he unlocks his car and then crowds him into the door before he can open it. “I can’t—” his lips are on his jaw, hands on his hips pulling him against him. “I’ve wanted to do this all night.” Then he’s kissing Zaeed, lips warm and firm and tongue tasting of brandy slipping along his own as he groans and kisses in return; hand on the back of Steven’s head pulling him tighter, opens to him and all he knows is this man and his need of him, making out like teenagers in a parking lot, grinding into each other, breathless and desperate.  
  
  
“Saturday morning,” Steven says on his mouth, “when you’re done with call. Come to my house.”  
  
  
“I’ll be goddamn useless if I—”  
  
  
“You can sleep if you need to. I don’t care. Just—” He captures his lips, their bodies tight along each other and he groans again, louder with need and frustration, feels the answer in Steven’s hands as he kneads his back through his leather coat.  
  
  
“Fuck,” he breathes, draws in air when Steven finally pulls away; hand in his hair, on his ass. “Yeah, alright.” He’s pretty sure he’d agree to just about anything in that moment; armed robbery, assassination of a president, vandalize a little old lady’s house. If Steven wants him to crash on his sofa, he’ll crash on his sofa. It would be rude otherwise. Or so he tells himself.  
  
  
~~~~~  
  
  
Getting through the next few days is decidedly torture. And Kasumi doesn’t help matters with her insinuations that ‘something has changed’ between him and Steven. He scowls and tells her to get back to work. Her insufferable grin as she walks away just makes him cross.  
  
  
He makes stronger efforts to not watch the man’s ass as he walks past him in the hall, to not react when Steven’s knee knocks his under the table while they eat lunch, to not think about kissing him right then and there every time he sees him.  
  
  
He is not successful.  
  
  
Friday night on call he manages to get some sleep until he’s woken at 2am and works straight through until 7:16. When he finally makes his way to his locker to grab his bag, he finds a text from Steven.  
  
  
_S: Hungry?_  
  
  
He pauses to consider, and then decides what the hell.  
  
  
_Z: Only for you._  
  
  
_S: Smooth. Very smooth._  
  
  
_Z: I have my moments. Be there in a bit._  
  
  
_S: Looking forward to it._  
  
  
He doesn’t bother to change out of his scrubs.  
  
  
The cold morning air clears his head as he walks to his car; the sky heavy with dark clouds that promise more snow. By the time he’s out of the city and driving up along the lake, small flakes are landing on his windshield, muting the colors of the landscape as he looks out over the water. His tires leave a trail when he turns into Steven’s driveway and he catches sight of Max running toward him from around the other side of the house, barking the alarm.  
  
  
Steven has the door open for him by the time he gets there, standing just inside the doorway to let them both in. “Hi,” he says.  
  
  
“Hey.”  
  
  
“You look tired.”  
  
  
He shrugs and allows the man to remove his coat as he toes off his shoes. Steven takes his hand, guides him through the house and up the stairs to the bedroom that is obviously his own. He opens his mouth to protest, but Steven kisses him, softly, gently, before stepping back and retreating to the door, calling Max with him.  
  
  
“Get some sleep,” he says. “Bathroom’s through there.” He closes the curtains as if to hide the snow outside, pulls the door closed behind him and leaves him in the quiet.  
  
  
Zaeed stands in the room, somewhat bewildered. He shucks his scrubs and pulls away the covers on the side that looks to not be Steven’s, slips between the sheets with a tired sigh. He falls asleep and does not dream.  
  
  
~~~~~  
  
  
He wakes to warm breath panting in his face, smelling of dog food. When he cracks one eye open he finds Max's nose inches away. Max whines and shoves his nose in his face, licking his nose and cheek and eye.  
  
  
“Max, stop.” Steven's whisper comes from somewhere over his shoulder. “Come.”  
  
  
But the dog doesn't move away, lays his muzzle on the bed instead. Zaeed grunts, pets the dog's ear, running fingers through the long, soft fur.  
  
  
“Sorry,” Steven says. “Didn't mean to wake you. Forgot my book. Didn't realize he followed me up.”  
  
  
“No, it's okay. Time is it?” He rolls onto his back and finds Steven in the dim light of the room, holding a book and standing at the end of the bed. He is captivated by the man in jeans and sweatshirt; wonders what he looks like out of them.  
  
  
“Nearly noon.”  
  
  
“Ugh. Fuck.” He sits up, runs his hands through his hair. “Didn’t mean to sleep so long. It’s like a tomb in here.”  
  
  
Steven chuckles. “I’ll take that as a not a bad thing.”  
  
  
He stands a moment at the end of the bed, looking indecisive. Then steps closer and sits next to him, eyes sparkling blue crystals. He reaches out to slide his hand along his jaw, over his ear, into his hair and Zaeed sighs, leans into the touch, reaches out to pull him closer and their lips meet, soft and light quickly turning hard and open and heated. He lays back on the bed, pulls Steven down on top of him, somewhat awkwardly with his feet still on the floor. He moans, or Steven moans, he’s not sure and it doesn’t matter because the man’s hand traces down his side over his ribs to rest on his hip. He wants Steven and shows him; tongues sliding over each other, biting at his lower lip, barely allowing the other to breathe. He feels the soft fabric of Steven’s sweatshirt rub on his bare chest, gathers it in his hands, tightening his grip so they're nearly crushing each other.  
  
  
In the end, it is his stomach that betrays him: loudly grumbling at a distinct scent that wafts on the air. Steven laughs and pulls away slightly, enough to study his face, eyes tracing over his features.  
  
  
“Ignore that,” he says and tries to tug him back, but the other man resists with a smile curling his lips. Laughs more as Max inserts his big head between them, whining softly. “Christ, Max—”  
  
  
“Max, sit.” The dog plunks his butt on the floor with a thud and Steven pulls away, although not quickly. “Take a shower. There’s lamb stew and biscuits for lunch.”  
  
  
“Not gonna join me?” He has to ask and he has to ask it with a wicked note in his voice.  
  
  
Steven scans over his skin, noting the tattoos that run up his arms, over his chest and neck, slides his hand up along his arm. “I've always wondered…” he murmurs, distracted by the sight before him.  
  
  
“Wondered?”  
  
  
An eyebrow arches. “How far they went up your arms.”  
  
  
“Not how far they went down?” He thrusts his hips up once in a quick jerk. “Care to find out?”  
  
  
His stomach gripes again. Steven retreats further and stands, grinning down at him. “I believe I'll save that for later. Get your ass up.”  
  
  
“Who the hell says there's gonna be a later?”  
  
  
The man doesn't answer, just laughs deep in his chest and leaves with his book and his dog and his sexy ass in his goddamn jeans and Zaeed sighs with frustration and gets his ass out of bed.  
  
  
A shower and shave later he finds Steven reading on the sofa, Van Morrison singing softly about a brown-eyed girl. Max ambles up so he gives him some love, getting down on his knees and ruffling through the soft fur, accepting Max’s kisses on his chin. He looks over to see Steven watching him, a thoughtful expression on his handsome face. “What?”  
  
  
He doesn't answer right away, but eventually says, “Just admiring the view.” And Zaeed doubts if that’s all that’s going through the man’s head, but he doesn’t push. He does wink though and is surprised to see the other man’s cheeks turn slightly pink.  
  
  
And isn’t that interesting? Steven Hackett can still blush and Zaeed himself can make that happen.  
  
  
“Come on,” Steven says. He gets up and heads for the kitchen, leading the two of them in a procession. Which suits Zaeed just fine considering the vantage point. From the sliding glass door in the kitchen, he can see that it’s still snowing, heavier now; large, fat snowflakes that fall so thick they obscure the view to the lake. The new layer is inches thick, hiding everything underneath it in bulbous mounds: a large, white sheet thrown over the landscape.  
  
  
“Still snowing?”  
  
  
Steven nods and ladles out two bowls of rich-smelling stew and places them on a tray that already holds a plate of biscuits and butter and honey. “Forecast is for all weekend. Maybe twelve inches by the end of it. Although with the way it’s coming down now it seems like it could be more. Here,” he passes the tray over to him, “you can carry that into the dining room. What do you want to drink? Beer? Iced tea? There’s some soda left over from last weekend—”  
  
  
“Water’s fine. Or, actually, I could use some coffee.”  
  
  
“On it.”  
  
  
Steven already has two places set at the table so he sets the bowls on the placemats and helps himself to a biscuit, slicing it in half and smearing butter in a thick layer. Max watches the procedure carefully, eyes shifting with each movement. He hears the whir of a coffee grinder coming from the kitchen and his stomach growls so he takes a bite to appease it.  
  
  
“Don’t wait on me!” Steven calls from the kitchen.  
  
  
Zaeed looks down at the biscuit in his hand, already half-devoured. He swallows. “Okay.”  
  
  
“Coffee’s brewing,” Steven has water and iced tea that he sets down.  
  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
  
“Of course.”  
  
  
They sit in silence for a minute. The lamb stew is as good as it smells and the biscuits are still warm so that the butter melts slightly into it. “Fuck, this is good.”  
  
  
Steven grins at him. “Thank you.”  
  
  
“You put Guinness in it?”  
  
  
Steven’s eyebrow arches and his grin grows smug. “Old Peculier.”  
  
  
“No shit? Damn good stuff. Nearly as good as mine.”  
  
  
Steven’s eyes narrow and he points his spoon at him. “You said you can’t cook.”  
  
  
“No. Said I don’t cook. There’s a difference.” He winks and finishes off his second biscuit. “So I gotta know something.”  
  
  
Steven pauses, spoon halfway to his mouth. “That sounds serious. Alright. What do you need to know?”  
  
  
“You said I said something the night of the Christmas party. I’m just curious...I don’t remember everything about that night…”  
  
  
An eyebrow quirks at him briefly. “You don’t?”  
  
  
He shakes his head and toys with his spoon. “Did I--I didn’t--I didn’t insult you somehow, did I?”  
  
  
“If you had, do you think you’d be sitting here? No, in fact the opposite. You complimented my ass and called me Handsome Hackett.”  
  
  
_Handsome Hackett..._  
  
  
“Ah.” At least that explains that.  
  
  
“Repeatedly.”  
  
  
Oh.  
  
  
“Shit. Sorry.”  
  
  
Steven laughs, all warmth and humor. “Don’t apologize. It got me thinking, after what you said about Jenkins not asking you to dance--I know you weren’t serious, but you’d never taken that tone before. Something was different and it took me a while, but I realized that what that something was was that Jessie wasn’t there anymore.” Zaeed feels the warmth of Steven’s hand as he grips his wrist. “And I’m sorry for that. That she died. That you had to go through that. It can't have been easy. You always had eyes for her. There could be a thousand beautiful women in the room and you’d only look at her. It was a bit...intimidating, how much you loved her.”  
  
  
“Intimidating?”  
  
  
“You put the rest of us to shame. Like you have no doubt and no medium, only off or full on.”  
  
  
“Well, I’m an all-in kind of guy—”  
  
  
“I get that. I do.” He sighs and the grip on his wrist relaxes, but he doesn’t move his hand, just keeps it there; warm and comforting. “It’s a hell of an attractive trait.”  
  
  
He looks down for a moment at Steven’s hand and then deliberately places his own over his; looks Steven in the eye. “Even if that’s my only attractive trait, I’ll take it.”  
  
  
The grip on his wrist tightens again. “I can assure you it's not.”  
  
  
He can’t stop looking at Steven; eyes locked and nothing he can do to turn away, blue eyes burning into him, drawing him closer. His breathing shallows, chest barely rising and falling. Steven licks his lips, pressing them together and Zaeed leans forward over the corner of the table, their hands still together; keeps leaning until he's out of his chair and in Steven's space, inches apart. Their hands finally separate, Steven's both pulling him forward, closer and closer until their lips meet and he sighs and kisses him harder, mouths opening and tongues sliding and teeth nibbling. He pushes Steven's chair sideways and then he's in his lap, straddling him, Steven's hands on his ass and his own cupping his face, thumbs brushing his bristled jaw.  
  
  
He sighs softly and breaks away, looks down at the man under him. “I want you. I’ve wanted you for...a while. Since you showed up with a dog and goddamn breakfast and your ass in those fucking jeans—” He groans and kisses the laugh that escapes from Steven’s mouth, his hands sliding up his back to his shoulder blades, pressing him down so he can feel the other man’s thudding heartbeat against his chest.  
  
  
“I want you too,” Steven says when he finally breaks away. Zaeed kisses down his exposed neck and he can feel the vibration as he speaks through his lips. “Since you called my nurse a farm boy. Maybe even before that, I don’t—”  
  
  
He stops him with another kiss, grinds slowly against him, feels the ache and pressure with each small movement. The hands on his back return to his ass, gripping him through his jeans and he groans with the thought of those long fingers, the strength of them.  
  
  
“Fuck, I—” he breaks away again, panting on the skin of the other man’s cheek. He pulls back slightly to look down, watching as Steven’s eyes blink open, languid and deep. So deep he could fall into them. “Been awhile since I’ve done this. With a bloke.”  
  
  
The hands slowly slide back up his spine, the sound of skin over cloth the only sound in the room. “Think you remember where everything goes?” Steven’s mouth turns up, teasing him.  
  
  
His heart thuds. Not at the words, but at the look on Steven’s face: open desire, flirtation, the smile of someone who’s anticipating what comes next, lips red and parted. He shudders a breath and smiles. “Might do at that. Kinda...coming back to me. Might need pointers though.”  
  
  
“I think that can be arranged.” He leans up, asking for another kiss and Zaeed complies, teasing with soft kisses that make the other man groan. “Help me--put lunch away—”  
  
  
“Ever the pragmatist.”  
  
  
“I suspect we may be quite hungry later.” His voice rumbles with suggestion and promise while hands again slide down his back to his ass and press him in closer.  
  
  
Zaeed rocks his hips once, twice and moans low and long. “Fuck…”  
  
  
“God, I hope we do.” One hand lightly taps his buttock. “Come on. Help me.”  
  
  
He slides a hand down between them, boldly groping the hardness underneath Steven’s jeans. “I am helping.”  
  
  
The man gasps and closes his eyes, head thrown back at the touch. “Not really what I meant, Zaeed. Fuck!” He bucks up when Zaeed tightens his fingers, his head thrown back exposing long length of neck that proves irresistible to Zaeed’s tongue and then his teeth; biting down on his flesh and smelling the light scent of aftershave. Steven’s fingers twist in his hair, pulling his head back gently. “Not above the collar line.”  
  
  
Zaeed grins, feral and heated; notes to himself the fact that nothing below the collar line is set off limits. “Alright.” He slides back, off Steven’s lap and nearly returns at seeing the whole of the man, sensual in his dishevelment and looking halfway to orgasm already. “Goddamn, you are fucking sexy.” He takes his hand and helps him stand. “Come on.”  
  
  
Steven blinks at him as if he has forgotten where he is, who he is. And then he steps forward and captures Zaeed’s face in his hands and kisses him, hard, teeth knocking together and tongue slipping over his and then breaks away just as quickly, taking several steps back. “You’re going to be the death of me, I’m sure.”  
  
  
Zaeed laughs and gathers up dishes. “And what a way to go.”  
  
  
“I don’t think the coroner can list ‘Zaeed Massani’ as a cause of death.”  
  
  
“Think that’s discretely called a goddamn ‘myocardial infarction’.” Steven laughs behind him as he carries his load to the sink.  
  
  
“I’ll put this away. Can you let Max out?”  
  
  
He slides open the door and Max bounds out into the snow. It’s let up somewhat--he can see across the lake at least--but not completely, snow still falling in small flakes. He hears Steven moving around the kitchen, quickly transferring food to containers and placing them in the fridge, but he doesn’t turn, mesmerized as Max tumbles through the snow, white flakes landing on his black coat.  
  
  
Hands slide around his chest, lips at the crook of his neck; he leans back and closes his eyes, concentrates on the sensation of Steven’s hard chest against his back, the hands that grip him, the warm lips that nuzzle and kiss. “Fuck, I want you,” he whispers and even then his voice is tight with need.  
  
  
Steven hums. A hand pulls up his shirt and slides beneath to find his skin and he groans, the fingers dipping just under the waist of his jeans to play with the band of his briefs. He reaches back and holds on to whatever he can find to anchor himself--Steven’s hair, the pocket of his jeans--as he sways, not just a little off balance. As if he senses Zaeed’s need for support, Steven pulls him tighter, one hand splayed open over his breastbone while clever fingers slip the button of his jeans undone and zips open his fly in a slow drag, the hand sliding in through the gap to squeeze his cock through the fabric of his underwear. A thumb slides over the dewy wetness just forming on the fabric and he gasps, fingers stronger and longer than—  
  
  
He stops mid-thought and silently pushes Jessie away. There’s no room for her here, doesn’t want her between him and Steven. There can be no comparison between them simply for his own sanity. What he had with Jessie is gone, pulled down into the haze of memory. Whatever this is could be with Steven is now. He wants to be present for it all, not hounded by a ghost who only brings him heartache.  
  
  
“Hey, you alright?” The voice in his ear vibrates low, the hand on him stills. “You disappeared somewhere.”  
  
  
“No, I--Yeah. I’m okay. Sorry—” He sighs, traces his hand down Steven’s arm until it comes to rest over the hand at his crotch to press down slightly.  
  
  
“Don’t apologize. Tell me what you need.”  
  
  
He turns in his arms. “You. I need you.” He leans close, kisses along his jaw, clutching at him so they’re tight together. “I want your cock in my mouth,” he whispers in his ear and Steven groans, slides his hand down the inside of his jeans and captures his mouth with his own, searing his lips with friction and heat.  
  
  
“What else?” Steven asks, barely lifting his mouth before sealing their lips together again.  
  
  
“I want you to fuck me.” He speaks between kisses, gasping as a finger presses into the divide of his ass, just the thin barrier of cloth between the hand and his skin. “I want to be in you, fuck you senseless—”  
  
  
“Oh hell—”  
  
  
“Be so sore tomorrow we can’t walk on Monday—”  
  
  
“Zaeed.” The fingers in his hair tighten and pull his head back. Steven studies him, their hearts thudding arrhythmically against each other’s chests.  
  
  
“Steven.” He uses the same serious tone, lets his name rumble up through him and then he grins, wicked and shameless and sees the answering smile in Steven’s eyes as they sparkle blue water.  
  
  
“I was going to ask if you’re positive you want this—” Zaeed grins at the other man’s words “--but I suspect you don’t have reservations.”  
  
  
Zaeed kisses the corner of his mouth, “No reservations.”  
  
  
“Good.” He releases him and steps away, slides open the door and Max slips in, shaking snow from his coat. Steven points in the general direction of Max’s large pillow bed in the living room. “Max, go lay down.” The dog trots off as Steven takes Zaeed’s hand and tugs him towards the stairs. “We’ll be lucky if he stays there, but…”  
  
  
Zaeed doesn’t comment, attention diverted by the ass that’s at eye level as Steven climbs the stairs ahead of him. He reaches out and tugs on the back pocket as Steven turns the corner at the landing and they’re in each other’s arms again, Zaeed pressing him back against the wall, feeling the man’s hardness through his half-open fly. Steven groans into his mouth, greedy hands on his ass, squeezing him tighter. Steven turns them, trying to back up the stairs and failing, his foot slipping on the carpet and he lands with a thud and a grunt on his ass.  
  
  
“Alright?” Zaeed kneels on the step below, not even trying to hide his grin.  
  
  
Steven nods and grabs handfuls of his shirt, yanking him close and kissing him, all tongue and teeth and lips that don’t relent. Zaeed slides a hand up under his sweatshirt, keeps going up until he finds a nipple already erect that he rubs between his forefinger and thumb, pressing him down on the stair steps until Steven is laying awkward and splayed out, Zaeed kneeling between his legs.  
  
  
He makes quick work of the man’s fly with sharp, jerking motions, sliding his fingers inside under the band of underwear to find heat and damp and the soft-slick hardness that Steven presses into his hand with a lift of his hips and a muffled curse into his mouth. He cannot stop himself, stroking awkwardly and thinking maybe there’s a better place to do this but not giving a good goddamn because he’s never seen Steven like this--desperate and needy, fingers digging into the hard muscles of his arms, panting breaths on his mouth--and he’s entranced, pushes more to see the man go further under and wonders if the spell will break and hopes it won’t. He imagines all the things he can do to this man, things he hasn’t had the chance to do since he met Jessie, things he doesn’t want to wait for anymore.  
  
  
He pushes at Steven’s jeans and the man lifts his hips, teeth biting Zaeed’s lip as his fingers search lower, fingertips pushing into the soft flesh of his balls, cupping his palm around them before shoving the fabric blocking his way further down. He grins down at Steven as he pushes his shirt up higher, kissing his way down the man’s chest, carding fingers through graying chest hair and along defined muscles towards the V of hair and muscle that points to his goal. The sharp jut of hip bone is under his lips for a brief moment, Steven’s hand in his hair, pulling him guiding him coaxing him towards his cock, hard and proud and--fuck--uncut and gloriously straining toward him.  
  
  
With the first lick he remembers; bitter, salty tang of pre-cum coating his tongue and he groans with the taste, his hand guiding the foreskin back to expose the rosy tip, Steven’s breath heavy with lust, his stomach rising and falling as he gasps with the touch of Zaeed’s tongue and lips and sucking mouth.  
  
  
“Oh god, yes.” Steven’s hips thrust up and he captures them with his hands, holding him down on the steps, taking him in and in and in until he coughs, out of practice, and releases the cock glistening with saliva. Steven’s fingers tighten on his head briefly before stroking over his scalp and Zaeed looks up along the length of the other man’s torso and captures his gaze, grinning at him like a fool.  
  
  
“Don’t stop.”  
  
  
“Not stopping. Just appreciating.”  
  
  
Steven’s laugh is soft, blue irises nearly obscured in dark wells of black pupil; wells he could fall into and get lost in with no regret. “We should--Oh…” Zaeed sinks his mouth down again, slowly taking in inch by inch, clasping his balls and hearing Steven suck in air, pumping him with his fist and there it is again, the taste of pre-cum that makes him salivate and suck harder.  
  
  
“I’m not gonna last--” Steven tries to pull him away, struggles briefly until he lays back on the steps, resigned to Zaeed’s single-minded determination to see him come undone, succumbing to his mouth and hands, hips moving in small jerks. Now that he has him here like this, he’s not going to stop; licking the nerves on the underside of his dick, a finger rubbing just at his entrance, coaxing moans from the man that seem to come up from his toes and rumble through his body before being released on the air to vibrate around them in swirling eddies of wanton lust. He needs this. Needs to have the man come in his mouth. Needs to give this man satisfaction.  
  
  
“S’alright. Come. Want you to come.” His voice is hoarse, rough with need as he gasps and looks up to see the expanse of Steven’s chest partially covered with his shirt, his head thrown back to expose his neck and Zaeed grins at the goddamn beautiful sight of it before closing his eyes and returning his mouth to its task, sucking and licking like a starved man.  
  
  
Steven bends his leg, moves it the next step up so it fits under his armpit and he marvels how they fit together; hard against hard, but still yielding, still accommodating to each other. And then there’s no thinking, only Steven’s hips thrusting and his urgent demands for more and the pulsing ache in Zaeed’s dick that he pushes aside even while he can’t stop his own hips’ movement, creating friction that’s not quite enough on the edge of the step and is only able to make him harder and somewhat frustrated. But his hands aren’t his own; for the moment they are Steven’s, devoted to Steven’s release.  
  
  
He urges him on with his own moan around his dick, wanting to speak but not wanting to stop as Steven’s fingers tighten painfully in his hair and his cum shoots in a warm stream, hits the back of this throat and he doubles his efforts, sucking harder as Steven shouts--“God! Fuck!”--and bucks his hips.  
  
  
He laps with his tongue as Steven's fingers loosen their grip in his hair, stomach heaving. “C’mere,” he breathes, pulls him up with a tug on his shirt. Zaeed hovers over him, grinning down, licking his lips. “My back is not going to thank you.” But he leans up, asking for a kiss and Zaeed complies, laughing into his mouth.  
  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
  
“No, you’re not.”  
  
  
“No, I’m not.”  
  
  
“Mm, fuck—” He kisses him again, slow and long, strong arms wrapped around him, holding him down. “Help me up.”  
  
  
“Let go of me, then.” He rubs his nose along Steven’s.  
  
  
“Mm…” He groans softly and releases him and Zaeed helps him stand, smirking as Steven tugs at his jeans.  
  
  
“Those are gonna just come off anyway.”  
  
  
Steven rolls his eyes and takes his hand. They make their way to his bedroom, stripping each other of clothes in a trail of evidence so that by the time they reach the bed Zaeed is naked and aching hard and Steven's eyes glint and he pushes him back on the bed.  
  
  
Outside the snow still falls, leaving the world in quiet waiting.


	7. Wake Me From Sleep

He's exhausted and yet exhilarated.  
  
Zaeed stares up at the ceiling in the darkness of the room; one hand behind his head, the other trapped on the far side of Steven. The other man is nestled in, curled alongside him, head on Zaeed’s shoulder, a leg thrown over one of his. It only takes a small movement to kiss Steven’s forehead, softly brush his lips and the fingers resting on his stomach curl in slightly, Steven’s breath becoming a sigh. But he otherwise doesn't stir.  
  
Zaeed on the other hand…  
  
His body is flooded with all the right chemicals to knock him out; he should be as dead to the world as Steven is. But he lays, wide awake, enjoying the warmth of the body next to him, the feel of wiry runner's muscles on his leg, the damp closeness of Steven's crotch at his thigh, the light puffs of breath on his chest. And he lays and thinks and remembers and his dick twitches with the fresh memories. He should be satisfied. For today at least, he should be satisfied. But he's not.  
  
He wants more.  
  
_Fuck_ , he wants so much more.  
  
He stifles the urge to pull Steven to him tighter and roll him onto his back, bury his nose in the crook of his neck. It’s no small urge, with the memory of the way Steven had groaned, the look of ecstasy on his face when he had come, buried deep in Zaeed (and he had forgotten _that_ , that feeling, for however much Jessie had tried to accommodate him, it wasn't the same). Zaeed's own cum had painted both their stomachs moments later. He remembers how Steven had collapsed onto his chest and groaned into his shoulder, nuzzling and kissing his way up his neck until Zaeed had captured his wandering mouth, lazy and languid, feeling Steven smile as they kissed each other. How he had slid down half on the bed, half on his chest and muttered “Fuck, you’re amazing” in his ear and Zaeed had felt himself blush like he was fifteen, glad that Steven wasn’t looking at him for the moment and made that fact continue by wrapping his arm around his head, keeping Steven’s mouth at his ear until Steven had pulled away to get tissues to clean them up.  
  
All of that. He remembers it all.  
  
Steven sighs and rolls away onto his back so Zaeed takes the opportunity to pull his hand out from under him, flexing his fingers to return blood flow. In the darkness of the room he can barely make out Steven’s silhouette; his sharp, long nose, the jut of his chin, the small twin rise of his lips and he muses on how goddamn handsome the man is.  
  
He sighs and slips from the between the sheets, stumbling over discarded clothes on the floor to get to the bathroom. Max raises his head from his bed in the corner, following his progress with a soft whine. When Zaeed is done, he contemplates trying to rifle through the clothes to find his boxers, but then just makes his way downstairs to the kitchen, Max padding softly after him. The air is chilly, but it doesn’t bother him, even when he opens the refrigerator door. He finds leftover pork lo mein take-out and a bottle of Sriracha and shuts the door with his hip. Max watches the process before going to the door. Zaeed opens it to a gust of wind, snow blowing in onto the wooden floor. The snow has stopped, but the wind swirls it in a thick fog along the ground, shaking the bare tree branches, bending the tops of the pines. Max makes quick work of his business and runs back, sneaking through the small opening that Zaeed makes for him before he shuts the door quickly, shivering now from the cold air.  
  
He finds a fork, squeezes hot sauce directly onto the cold noodles in the box, leaning his ass back on the counter. Max lays on his feet, silky fur tickling his ankles and warming his cold toes.  
  
Which is how Steven finds him a few minutes later. The man is barefoot, but looks warm in a navy blue bathrobe; hair disheveled, blinking blearily as he switches on the light. “Hell, Zaeed. Aren’t you cold?”  
  
Zaeed shrugs and watches him get a glass of water, takes another bite of noodles. Max sits up as Steven approaches, tail thumping the floor, but otherwise doesn’t move.  
  
“Traitor,” Steven says, looking down at the dog with a deadpan frown. Max grins back, tongue lolling out, and leans against Zaeed’s leg. He stops just short of Zaeed’s personal space and watches him squirt more hot sauce onto the noodles. “You know that’s a condiment, right? Not a food group.”  
  
“Goddamn lies.” He takes a bite of noodles and grins as Steven rolls his eyes. He sets the take-away box aside and reaches out to slip his fingers inside the belt of the bathrobe, pulling it free to hang loose. The robe gapes open to reveal the other man’s chest and stomach and all things lower. He steps closer and opens the bathrobe. Steven watches with amusement as he pulls the ends of the robe around his back and then Steven’s arms are around him, holding the robe himself as Zaeed kisses his neck, hands around the inside of the robe on his naked back, cool skin hitting warm.  
  
“Can I ask you something?” Steven’s voice is a purr in his ear, low and rumbling so that he can feel the vibration in his own chest.  
  
Zaeed stops the kisses at the man’s neck, rests his lips on the skin. “Okay.”  
  
“If you hadn’t been stuck here, snowed in, would you have stayed? Overnight, I mean.” He’s surprised to hear the notes of uncertainty in his voice, normally so confident and sure.  
  
Zaeed pulls back just enough to look the other man in the eye. He studies him for a moment, notes the questioning look in those blue eyes that capture his attention. “Would you have asked?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Then I bloody well would have stayed.”  
  
Steven answers with a pleased grin, tightens his embrace: their dicks press against each other, perhaps not as flaccid as they had been a minute previously.  
  
Zaeed leers back. “What? Again, old man?”  
  
Steven swats his butt lightly. “Don’t you ‘old man’ me, old man.”  
  
“Fifty-two is hardly old.”  
  
“Neither is fifty-eight, so shut your spicy pie hole.” He steps back and takes Zaeed’s hand, leading him through the kitchen. “C’mon. The night is young, even if we aren’t.”  
  
“It’s two a.m.”  
  
“The day is young then.” He turns off the light and guides him through the dark house back up the stairs to the bedroom. “I have this filthy idea in my head I think I should show you.”  
  
Zaeed huffs a laugh and follows along behind him. “Like the sound of that.”  
  
~~~~~  
  
**6 weeks later**  
  
Zaeed looks over at the dog sitting next to him on the sofa, flips a popcorn kernel up in the air that Max catches easily, chomps and swallows in one go. And then casts an eager eye on the bowl that rests on Zaeed's lap. “Wait your turn.” The dog's eyebrows twitch, looking back and forth from Zaeed to the bowl, following his hand as he eats a handful, and then another. Max slobbers a thin line of drool that pools on the sofa cushion. “Yeah, see? Now we're in trouble. As if Steven weren't going to kill me anyway when he gets home. Just don't tell him I let you drink from the goddamn toilet.” He wipes at the wet spot with his sleeve and then rearranges a pillow to cover it.  
  
Max’s head jerks up and he barks at the same time the garage door opens. The dog launches himself off the sofa and runs toward the door, tail wagging. Zaeed follows, listens as Steven turns off the car and the garage door shuts with a metallic rumble before opening the door so Max can bound through. Steven barely manages to get the car door open before Max has himself halfway in the car, draped over Steven as he licks and whines.  
  
“Miss me, boy?” Steven hugs the dog and accepts his kisses with a laugh, ruffling the fur behind his ears. Zaeed watches from his perch at the door, leaning on the jam and trying to calm his heart. _Five days. Only gone for five days and you’re a goddamn mess._ His heart trips even harder as Steven looks at him over the dog, eyes full of naked longing. _Okay, so maybe I’m not the only one._ And that thought alone is enough to make his chest feel tight.  
  
Steven pushes the dog off and unfolds his lean body from the car. Zaeed finds himself standing in front of him without his even remembering at having taken a step. Steven reaches out and pulls him to him. He’s solid and warm and his lips are firm on his, kissing him hard with his eyes closed and his fists bunching up Zaeed’s shirt in a tight grip, heart thudding against his chest.  
  
He responds with his own desperation; pushing him back against the car, molding his body to the other man's and feeling the quickening hardness match his own.  
  
When Steven finally relaxes his hold, releases his mouth with soft kisses, he whispers in his ear, “I missed you,” and Zaeed nods.  
  
“Yeah. Same.” He’s not surprised by the fact, only by the admission. He waits a beat, kissing the other man’s ear before taking a step back, not quite able to meet Steven’s eyes. “Need help with your luggage?”  
  
A moment passes before Steven responds. “Yeah, I brought back a couple boxes of stuff.” He pops the trunk and pulls out a suitcase. There are two boxes sealed tight with tape, one marked ‘Fragile’, both labeled with stickers from the airline. Zaeed hefts them both--one is much heavier than the other--and shuts the trunk with his elbow. “You can put those on the dining room table. There’s something in there for you.”  
  
“Me?”  
  
“Yeah, you.” He dumps his suitcase at the bottom of the steps and after hanging his coat in the closet, trails after Zaeed and Max to the dining room. The boxes are barely set down before Steven has him in his arms. Zaeed leans back into the embrace, warm lips on his neck. “I’ve been terribly conflicted the last five days,” Steven says, biting down gently to punctuate his words.  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Mm. Thinking about you in the middle of my aunt’s funeral.” A hand slides lower to cup him through his jeans. “You’re not exactly the most suitable subject to be thinking about.”  
  
Zaeed laughs darkly and turns, brushing his lips over Steven’s temple. “Won’t say I’m sorry for that—”  
  
“No. Don’t. I—” Steven’s breath shudders, his arms tightening around him. “I didn’t expect to miss you so much. Or think about you in the middle of giving the goddamn eulogy. Or during the entire reception, talking to people I barely remember and wishing…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Wishing you were there,” he whispers the words against his skin and a chill runs down Zaeed’s spine.  
  
But he laughs off the feeling--that uncertainty about what they are to each other. “Then who would stay home with the goddamn dog?”  
  
The arms around him loosen and he’s turned, face-to-face with those lips and that chin and the scar. Steven’s eyes darken, grasps Zaeed’s jaw with long fingers. “Kennel. Dog sitter. I don’t care. I just—” He kisses him hard, worries at his lower lip with teeth, tongue swiping over his own. Zaeed grins from the need of him, the feel of him, the desperate want that’s in Steven’s hands. “I missed you, alright?” He breaks the kiss and taps his forehead to Zaeed’s.  
  
He can’t deny the feeling is mutual. It’s only a half-formed thought in his head; he can’t get the words out of his throat. So he swallows instead, his throat thick with words he doesn’t know how to say. Even though a part of him wants to, wants to tell him that maybe he’s becoming more attached than he thought he would or is prepared for. Mostly he’s not certain how he feels about it himself. There’s been no rushing headlong into anything; no decent into the well of Steven. Only this gentle, barely noticeable merging into each other’s slip stream. He’s beginning to not be able to tell where one ends and the other begins.  
  
It makes him panic ever so slightly.  
  
“What’s in these goddamn boxes, then?” he nods his head in a jerk and Steven sighs, pulls away and goes into the kitchen to find a scissors to cut the boxes open.  
  
“Some things of my aunt’s. We went through the house--my cousins and I--and found a few things we each wanted. To be honest, it was hard to choose. My uncle did very well for them before he died.” He opened one of the boxes and pulled out something wrapped in massive amounts of bubble wrap.  
  
“Good god. What’s that? Faberge egg?”  
  
“Very nearly.” The bubble wrap comes off slowly to reveal an antique rosewood box with gold filigree inlay. Steven lifts the clasp and takes out something hidden away inside--also wrapped in bubble wrap. “Here,” he hands the box over to Zaeed. “This was my grandfather’s humidor.”  
  
“What are you giving it to me for?”  
  
“Because I want you to have it.”  
  
“But—”  
  
Steven sighs and sets the other object in his hands down on the table. “Just take it. I don’t smoke and you do.”  
  
“You could use it for something. Pennies or...whatever goddamn thing—”  
  
“Just take it, Zaeed. Christ.” His brow furrows, his face suddenly fierce and Zaeed feels his heart rate increase. Beyond the occasional buying of dinner or drinks, they’ve managed to not exchange much of anything (bodily fluids excepted). There’s a change in the air that accompanies this gift; handing over a family heirloom with such casualness that he looks closer at Steven and sees the twinge of worry at his eyes, the press of his lips together that keeps him from whatever angry tirade Zaeed might have fueled with his reluctance. He sighs and reaches out to take it back, “Or not.”  
  
Zaeed pulls the box away from the other man's hands. “Oh hell no. Mine.” Because the last thing he wants to do is disappoint Steven by rejecting a gift such as this. And his reward is Steven's surprised grin, the storm clearing from his face, and the gentle press of lips against his that turns harder until the man breaks away and Zaeed says “Thanks” and Steven quirks an eyebrow at him.  
  
“For what?”  
  
He sets the humidor aside gently, runs his fingers over the lid smoothed by age. “For…this.” He taps the lid of the cigar box, but what he means is something different. What he means is this thin thread of hope that has pulled him back from an abyss he didn’t know he stood at, staring down into the cavern of his own loss. What he means is the bright spot of Steven in his day--seeing him at work, more and more coming home to him, more and more thinking of Steven as home, his house as home. What he means is beyond what he can put in words, but fills his chest and makes his fingers tremble.  
  
What he means scares the goddamn daylights out of him. And yet, he’s not running away.  
  
To distract himself, he peers inside the open box. “What else you got in here?” He reaches in and pulls out the only other thing at the bottom of the box; a framed image that he can’t see through all the bubble wrap.  
  
“Just an old picture. Books and recipes and some silver in the other—”  
  
“Oh, fuck _me_ ,” Zaeed pulls the wrap off the frame to find Steven Hackett in all his youthful glory, gold medal around his neck, wearing a team t-shirt and the shortest red running shorts imaginable, all long legs and knobby knees. His blue eyes are defiant and hard and the scar sits like a badge on his cheek, cutting through his skin.  
  
  
  
“Zaeed—” The other man swipes his hand at the picture in an attempt to grab it away, but he lifts it out of his reach, unable to keep his eyes off it.  
  
“Hell, no. This is—” he struggles to find the words to express his delight “-- _fuck!_ This is bloody brilliant.” He glances at Steven and delights in the blush that has spread from neck to forehead.  
  
“Christ, Zaeed—”  
  
“You were fucking hot—”  
  
“Were?”  
  
“And those goddamn shorts.” He examines the image closely. “Can practically see your balls—”  
  
“You ass. You cannot.”  
  
He points to a spot on his crotch that is obviously the bulge of his package. “Right there.”  
  
Steven’s sigh is much put-upon. “Zaeed.”  
  
“Always had those eyebrows, I see. Jesus, you were a stick—”  
  
“Are you done?”  
  
“With this picture? Never. I will never be done with this goddamn picture. This picture is fucking magnificent. I’m making a giant copy of this picture and hanging it on the ceiling over the bed.”  
  
“You will not.”  
  
“This is masturbatory material right here.”  
  
“I was seventeen! You’re not masturbating to seventeen year old me.”  
  
He pauses and leers and says, “You’ll never really know what’s in my goddamn head when I masturbate now, will you?”  
  
Steven crowds in on him, steps so close their chests are pressed together. “How about I just make it so you don’t need to masturbate,” he whispers, low and husky, in Zaeed’s ear. The picture is taken from him, set behind Steven on the table. “Keep your head occupied with other things?”  
  
“Like what?” He wraps his arms around the man, slides his hands down to his ass and pulls him close.  
  
Steven laughs softly, low and dark. “Like me sucking you off. Like you buried deep in me. Like wrecking you, making you so hoarse you can't speak to explain why there's dog hair on the sofa.”  
  
“Noticed that, did you?”  
  
“No. But you just confirmed any suspicion I might have had that you'd let that happen.”  
  
“In my defense—”  
  
“Shush,” his fingers are on Zaeed's chin. “Just no dog on the bed, alright?” He doesn’t give him a chance to answer, covers his mouth with his own in a kiss that quickly becomes heated and hard, makes him think of nothing else beyond the warm body against his and the five long days that have passed.  
  
“So,” Steven says once he’s broken the kiss, his lips resting just at the corner of Zaeed’s mouth. “That stuff can wait.” He waves his hand at the boxes on the table and takes Zaeed’s hand, his thumb a gentle caress on his wrist. “I want you,” his voice is a purr in his ear as he slides his lips down the side of Zaeed’s neck. “Now.”  
  
“Not gonna argue with that.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
Zaeed makes a show of looking at the discarded picture, leans out to grab it with a sly grin.  
  
“Zaeed.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Cut it out.”  
  
He chuckles and then turns and leads Steven upstairs.  
  
~~~~~  
  
They linger in bed after. It’s a Sunday afternoon and there is nowhere to go, nothing pressing to do that can’t be done later; so they slide their limbs over each other, languid and spent while afternoon sunlight spills over the bed to cut them into light and shadow. Steven tells him about his aunt, who helped raise him after he came to the states with his grandparents.  
  
“From Argentina?”  
  
“Mm-hmm. Buenos Aires.” He twists the words around his tongue with a Spanish accent Zaeed has rarely heard him use. “Mom died when I was twelve so my grandparents raised me. And then we moved to the states when I was fourteen and I went to school at The Advanced Training Academy for Juveniles,” he says the name with professional affectation, obviously a name said by rote.  
  
“Military school?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Wondered ‘bout that. You stand like you had something to do with military.”  
  
“Do I?”  
  
“Mm. At ease, soldier.”  
  
Steven laughs and rolls so he’s pressed up along Zaeed’s side. “Not to worry about that. You’ve pretty much worn me out. For now.”  
  
He looks at him sideways from his periphery. “Good to know.” His fingers trace Steven’s scar, moving along the roughened skin that cuts across his cheek and lips. “So how did this happen? Looked pretty fresh in that picture.”  
  
Steven rolls his eyes. “My aunt and uncle lived on a farm, upstate New York. I was climbing an apple tree. Branch broke. I went down. Right on an old rusted out discer that my uncle would never get rid of. Sliced my cheek right open.” He slides up on his elbow, looks down at Zaeed. “I discovered when I played basketball after that, I could intimidate the shit outta the other team. Give them this look,” he furrows his brow and glares as if he’s about to give Zaeed a beat down. “Anyone guarding me would practically piss his shorts. Got the nickname ‘Hatchet’.”  
  
The image makes Zaeed laugh. So much so that he can’t stop, a belly laugh that he hasn’t experienced in years that’s so hard tears stream from the corners of his eyes. And Steven’s answering laughter just feeds into his until he collapses back on the bed and groans and his stomach hurts. He has to take long breaths to calm himself. And even then, he can’t stop the sudden chortles that start the entire thing all over again.  
  
Eventually the laughter fades and he looks at Steven, a grin covering the other man’s face. “Oh fuck. Hatchet. Brilliant. Never letting you live that down.”  
  
Steven groans. “I wish you would.”  
  
“Too late, _Hatchet_.”  
  
“Oh, Christ. _No_.” He tries to cover his mouth with his hand, but Zaeed moves away and they tussle and rough house on the bed, the sheets twisting around their feet until Steven grapples him from behind and they collapse back on the bed, spooned together, panting softly from the exertion. Steven groans into his neck, arm clasping Zaeed tight to his chest.  
  
“I like this,” Steven says, voice pitched low and seductive, rumbling and vibrating on Zaeed's back and in his ear so that he resists the urge to groan, to push his hips back into the other man.  
  
“Your goddamn voice is gonna be the death of me.” Not intending to say it out loud. Not even aware he's said the words until he hears them. And glad he's facing away from Steven so he can't see the red tide of embarrassment that floods his face at the admission.  
  
Steven hums, on purpose he thinks, his hand drifting over his chest, sparking nerve endings to life as his fingers roam over his chest hair. “Oh yeah? How so?”  
  
The groan slips from his lips, Steven's fingers tightening on a nipple. “You could recite the goddamn fucking alphabet and I'd most likely come by the time you got to ‘z’.” He doesn't intend to say the thought he'd had months ago, but there it is, lingering in the air. He closes his eyes, breathes a soft sigh when Steven's lips land on his neck, sucking gently, lapping with his tongue.  
  
The man tightens his embrace, tucking his knees up behind him so that Zaeed can feel his hard body all along his backside. Soft laughter and a puff of air tickle his ear. “A,” he says and Zaeed groans and laughs and it's the fucking sexiest ‘a’ he's ever heard in his goddamn life, pitched low and rumbling through Steven's chest like he doesn't want to let it go, breathed directly into his ear to vibrate almost painfully off his ear canal, the sound traveling directly down his spine to his balls.  
  
“Oh, goddamnit. No—”  
  
“B.” Steven's hands drifts lower to play with the hair on his stomach and Zaeed laughs; he has to laugh because what else can he do? The man is doing exactly as he suggested.  
  
“Steven—”  
  
“C.”  
  
He reaches back, skims his hand along Steven’s hip, feels his growing erection twitch and press in along the crack of his ass, his own cock giving a bounce as Steven doesn’t relent, says, “D. E. F.” Each letter slow and low as his hand continues further down to cup him gently, fingers loose around him, only the index finger pressing lightly just at the tip, worrying at his foreskin, tapping lightly on sensitive nerves. His hips buck at that, trying to create friction, wanting those long fingers wrapped more firmly around him.  
  
“Goddamn fu-uck—”  
  
Steven laughs, the sound of a man in control. And bloody hell if he isn’t; Zaeed already a puddle in his hands. It’s unexpected; and not unwelcome. There’s movement under his head, under the pillow, and his hand tucked underneath is taken in Steven’s grip, his arm stretching out until their hands emerge clenched together. “G. H—” Steven kisses him behind his ear, nose nudging along his hairline, taking his earlobe lightly between his teeth and pulling just enough to sting.  
  
“Ung—” His fingers dig into Steven’s arse, firm muscle under his hand. “Bloody goddamn motherfu—”  
  
“I.” Steven’s fingers tighten briefly around him and his hips jerk, cock hard in the man’s hand and then just as suddenly released, returns to teasing, fingertip tapping at nerve endings, rubbing pre-cum under his foreskin, slicking it back between light fingers. “J.”  
  
Zaeed’s hips move, rutting into the man’s grasp as best he’s able; chasing friction, chasing heat. “Steven.” The name grinds through his throat, twists around his tongue before he spits it out between clenched teeth. “Damnit.” He releases his grip on Steven’s arse and attempts to take himself in hand seeing as Steven isn’t going to do it properly, but the other man grabs his wrist and in a quick twist has both his wrists confined in his other hand--a grip Zaeed could easily get out of if he so desired.  
  
He finds he does not so desire.  
  
“K. L. M. N.” Steven reaches down between their bodies, adjusts himself so his cock rests between Zaeed’s thighs, along the crack of his ass before his fingers returns to the light pressure on Zaeed, simply cupping his fingertips around him, letting him lie heavy in his hand, not stopping him from rocking his hips. He tightens his thighs together and Steven moves with him, his breath panting in his ear as he speaks the letters, bites lightly on his skin. “O—” Steven says in a long breath hot on his skin. He’s not sure if it’s the letter, or an exclamation. Maybe both. Maybe it doesn’t matter.  
  
He answers with a groan and, “Fuck,” whispered under his breath, speeding the movement of his hips, feeling the slick and slide of Steven’s cock between his thighs.  
  
“P. Q.” The voice in his ear sounds strained, as if Steven is holding himself in check. His fist tightens around him and Zaeed thrusts hard into it, grunting with the sudden force of it. Steven’s grip around his wrists tightens as well, his body becoming a taut bowstring as Zaeed moans and jerks and thrusts back against him. “R. S. T.” A hoarse whisper in his ear, wet lapping of tongue and a gasp as Zaeed breaks free of the restraint, his free hand slapping Steven on the arse in a quick spark of sound that echoes off the walls of the room.  
  
“Hell, yeah.” He digs his fingers into flesh, tightens their bodies together, pushes back and grinds into the man’s crotch so that wet tip of dick hits his balls, satisfied to hear Steven groan, to feel the pull of foreskin as Steven twists his wrist and jerks him, pumps him harder.  
  
“W. X—”  
  
“Cheating.”  
  
Steven laughs and backtracks, “T-U-V-W-X—” says it in a rush of breathless moan, thighs slapping against his, skin damp with sweat. He turns his head and Steven’s lips are hard on his, tongue sliding over his. “Y.”  
  
“Yeah. Do it. Gonna--Fuck—”  
  
Steven’s hand slides up from base to tip, holds him there with just enough pressure that Zaeed can thrust short and sharp and quick. His balls tighten and he comes, spills over Steven’s hand, groans from the ache of it, hips jerking in spasms.  
  
“Z.” Steven’s arms fold around his chest and the man buries his nose in Zaeed’s neck, clutching him tightly and thrusting between his thighs, his dick sliding along his now sensitive sack. Zaeed reaches down between his legs, helps finish him off with his fingertips. Steven moans and pants and his cum fills his hand and fuck if it isn’t the sexiest thing: Steven’s uncontrolled thrusting, holding him so tight he can barely breathe, a moan so filled with lust and satisfaction in his ear it nearly makes him hard again.  
  
It takes a while for Steven to release his hold; even then not letting him go fully, just relaxing his arms for a minute before his hands slide down his chest. “Fucking hell—”  
  
Zaeed laughs and Steven rolls away onto his back and they lay together side by side, catching their breath and grinning at each other like goddamn fools. He has no other thought in his head beyond that.  
  
~~~~~  
  
He showers and when he emerges finds Steven at the sink trimming his beard, surgeon’s fingers with the scissors. He watches him as he towels off, admires the man and his neat precision. Admires, too, the naked length of him, the ease of being with him in the close quarters of the bathroom.  
  
The scissors are set aside and Steven turns to him, leans his hip on the sink. “I was thinking.”  
  
“That's never good.”  
  
A hand towel is thrown, lands on his face. “Ass.” Zaeed throws the towel back at him with a smirk. “Instead of you taking all your stuff with you.” He pauses long enough Zaeed looks up from drying off his legs.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“You could leave some things here. If you wanted.” The man shrugs, as if it doesn’t mean anything, but he can see it does mean something. Means a lot with the way his brow has come down, blue eyes intense and sparking.  
  
Zaeed wraps the towel around his waist and steps closer, mimics Steven with his hip on the sink and his arms crossed over his chest. “Like my toothbrush?”  
  
Another shrug. “I can make room for you in the closet, empty a drawer for you. I’d just—” he sighs and closes the distance between them, his hands at Zaeed’s hips. “I like having you around.” Those blue eyes search his face, questioning and unsure, but still as defiant and bold as they were when Steven was seventeen and wearing a gold medal on his chest.  
  
A smart remark wants to slip past his lips, but he--for once--stops himself. His heart thuds at the implication of what Steven is suggesting: a deepening of their relationship, and he has to ask himself if that’s what he wants. Does he want more? Something beyond their weekends in bed, occasional dinners. Does he want to open up himself to the possibility of hurt? Not much scares him but this. The pain of letting go. The wrenching of his heart. The fragility of being alone again. All these things scare him. And yet he finds himself leaning closer; can’t resist the pull of Steven Hackett. Zaeed’s hand is on his cheek, smoothing fingers back into his hair and Steven practically rumbles with a groan, his fierce eyes closing as Zaeed kisses him, hand on the back of his neck, his thumb stroking the other man’s jaw.  
  
He feels himself slipping over into an abyss and the only purchase he has is the man in his arms.


	8. Slowly Falling Slowly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for the holidays messing up my posting schedule. Ah well. I console myself that ya'll were too busy drinking eggnog and playing Cards Against Humanity to notice.

This is how he falls in love: small things, miniscule things, one day at a time, one minute at a time, one second he isn't and the next second it creeps into his thoughts like misty fog and he wonders how and why and if. Then shunts it all aside and lies to himself that he isn’t because it’s easier. Because if he isn’t, then no one gets hurt. If he isn’t, then there is no pain and loss.

They fall into companionship and ease, life and things ordinary. On the weekends, when there’s no call to be on, Steven always wakes before Zaeed, kisses him awake, sometimes smacks his arse lightly and cajoles him to get up and go with him: to the farmers market, to a jazz festival, to go running (he complains, his face in his pillow, that he’s a _boxer_ , not a runner and fifteen minutes on a treadmill to warm up hardly shows enthusiasm toward the sport; and still Steven manages somehow to coax him out the door wearing borrowed running shorts and shoes, Max at their heels, and he finds that while he doesn’t exactly like it, he doesn’t exactly hate it either).

The farmers market is a pleasant surprise and as they make their way down the tables, Zaeed tries a sample of something called kohlrabi, remarks how it tastes like turnip and memories of his mum rush in. They find local-roasted coffee and stop to lean out over the river and he tells Steven how his mum would make roasted turnips on Sundays with a small roast and mushy peas and he’d give anything to have that meal again. It’s not so much the meal as the feeling of being eight and the special occasion of roast beef, his mum and dad not arguing for a change, that feeling of warmth and home that soon after he never really felt again.

Steven says, “You've never talked about your parents. Not really.”

He shrugs and drains the last of his coffee. “Not sure what there is to say.”

“Are they still alive?”

“Yeah. Well, Mum is. If you can call it that. She's in a nursing home. Alzheimer’s. Doesn't remember me or anyone really.” Steven curses under his breath and Zaeed nods. “I don't have much contact with her anymore.” He leans heavier on the railing, watching the water pass by below them. “It's hard to...well. It's goddamn shitty to call up your mum and not have her know who you fucking are.” He surprises himself with the words; that he would admit to that feeling of abandonment out loud.

There are no words from Steven; no empty reassurances or platitudes about the pain of watching one’s parents grow older. He’s well aware he has a leg up on Steven; that his mother, at least, is still alive, that she can say his name--even if is addressed to the wrong person--and he’s able to call her up and, if nothing else, listen to her breathe. Steven has no such luxury. Steven’s fingers grip his wrist briefly, a soft squeeze that does more to comfort him than any words he could have said. Their eyes meet, Steven’s sad smile reflected in his eyes and Zaeed knows he’s lost out to whatever battle he might have been trying to fight: his heart versus his head. His head swims with the rush of it through his system.

“What about your dad?” Steven says and it brings him back to the acrid fish smell of the river, the cool metal railing digging into his arms, the lingering flavor of coffee on his tongue, and the man next to him that makes the pulse in his neck pound.

“He left when I was ten. Never heard from him again. All for the best, really.” And that’s all he wants to say about that. But Steve doesn’t press, just nods and drops his hand even while he leans closer, pressing his warmth against him for a brief moment.

Steven drains the last of his coffee, clears his throat. “So. How does one get ahold of ‘mushy peas’?”

Zaeed looks at him over the rim of his paper cup, shakes his head. “Not sure why you’d want to. They’re bloody awful. But,” he casts a glance over his shoulder, back to the throng of the market, “saw some fresh peas back there. Pretty sure I saw turnips too.”

“Find a roast. Make it for dinner?”

“Sounds like a goddamn plan.”

It is domestic and comfortable and he tries to feel put out about it, but can’t quite rustle up the ire to do so.

~~~~~

All through the spring and early summer, he’d been opening up his schedule and looking ahead, always to check on Lucy’s appointment. He’s not sure why he’s so worried: if her mother decided he had been responsible for the human services visit and opted to switch orthopedic doctors (or, even worse, stop Lucy’s treatment altogether), there’s really nothing he can do about it. But it doesn’t stop him from checking all the same. Her appointment remains, day after day, week after week, and that gives him some hope; maybe things at home have improved for her.

It's small comfort indeed.

He finishes off for the day, running through his dictations quickly, wanders off towards Steven’s pod. He can hear him, his voice low and gruff, words cut off in anger as he speaks to his nurse in the hallway. The low timbre of his voice sends a thrill through him as it has from the start; it cuts through to his spine, makes him weak in the knees. “Get them in here,” Steven says with an irritated growl, “so I can chew them both out. Does she not know how to give him a handy?”

Jenkins chokes on a laugh and speaks into the phone while Steven rolls his eyes at Zaeed. “Damn idiots. Guy has sex a week after total hip replacement and complains that his hip hurts. What does he expect?” The man takes a step closer into Zaeed’s personal space. “You on call tonight?”

“Yeah. Just wanted to—” _see you_. He doesn’t finish. He’s never said such words, even with Jessie. Has always had a difficult time of it. Which goes a long way to explain the troubles they had.

Steven studies him for a moment and then looks up and down the hall. It’s end-of-day quiet, many people already having left the building. Jenkins has disappeared in a waft of clean-smelling efficiency. He jerks his head toward an empty exam room, ignoring Zaeed’s raised eyebrow, and pins him to the door once it’s closed. His hands tuck in under his arse, pulling him tight against him, kissing him hard. Zaeed finds himself grinning, surprised by the intensity. So far they’ve managed to keep their relationship quiet, although Kasumi has begun pestering him more and more about it. And part of the success of that has been not doing things like making out in exam rooms or offices where anyone can walk in.

He doesn’t break away--Steven is a damned fine kisser--rather he intensifies the kiss, holds the man to him with one hand on the back of his neck and the other reciprocating the arse grab. They continue on with this for a while until they’re rubbing each other through their trousers and Steven pants in his ear, “I’ll miss you tonight.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Barely.” Steven lifts his head and studies him, his arms tightening around his waist as if he doesn’t want to let go. “Listen. There’s something I want to talk to you about. Nothing—” he continues, seeing Zaeed’s eyebrows draw down in a scowl “--to worry about. Just something I’ve been thinking. Let’s take the boat out this weekend.”

He pulls back, wary of the intensity of the man’s gaze. “Alright.”

“Stop looking at me like that. It’s really no big deal.”

“Uh huh.”

Steven sighs. “It’s just something I’d like you to think about.”

“Any more goddamn cryptic and I’d think you were going to pop the question.” Steven colors at the words and he wishes he could shove them back in his mouth. It’s not something they’ve even talked about. Too early to discuss such things for one. Not certain he’d even want to for another. “You’re not gonna pop the question are you?” He has to ask for the look on Steven’s face; how he blushes--which is so goddamn refreshing he can’t even express it--and looks at him all wide-eyed and somewhat taken aback.

“No!”

“Good.”

“Not that—”

“We don’t have to—”

“--I wouldn’t want to.”

“--discuss it.”

They break apart, awkwardly talking over each other. Zaeed clears his throat and points over his shoulder at the door. “I should let you go.” Probably says it too eagerly. But his heart races a little more than he’s willing to admit and he side-eyes Steven as he turns to see him blink quickly as if stunned by the turn of events.

His hand is on the doorknob when he pauses and turns, hates to leave with this awkwardness hanging between them, but doesn’t know quite what to say that won’t turn things even more awkward--discussions such as these should not take place at work in an exam room. “I’ll...see you tomorrow.”

He’ll go to his place in the morning to clean up because it’s closer in. It’s about the only time anymore that he does go to his apartment: the nights he’s on call. And he rarely sleeps in his bed anymore. It’s too cold. Too empty.

“See you at home if nothing else,” Steven says.

Also there’s that. Somewhere along the line he’s begun to think of Steven’s house as ‘home’. And he’s not sure if it’s because Steven calls it that, and always has--never ‘my house’ or ‘my home’, just ‘home’ as if it's always been obvious that it's Zaeed's as well--or if there’s been a shift within himself and he’s just been able of late to admit that while he may legally live at the apartment, his home is on the lake with a monster of a dog and a man that six months ago he barely knew even after working with him for years.

“Yeah.” He steps back from the door and kisses Steven lightly, just a press of lips to help wipe away the strangeness of the recent moment. “I’ll text you on my break.”

“Alright. Have a good night.”

He puffs out his cheeks and pushes his hair back as he walks to his car, debating his own wisdom. Doubting his decision to stay and not return to England. Wondering what the hell does he think he’s doing, dallying with this man who is definitely not a dalliance.

He is halfway between; feeling gun shy. And, never one to have self-doubt, angry at himself for it.

He tries not to blame Jessie. Her ghost haunts him less and less, nearly nothing but gossamer shimmers like heat waves on pavement. If he weren’t looking, he wouldn’t see it. But he looks. The habit is well-worn, fraying his thoughts when he thinks he’s safe. He knows she will never not be there; watching quietly from the recesses of his memories.

~~~~~

It’s warm enough that weekend that Steven suggests overnighting in the boat, tucked into the small cubby with Max laying at their feet (and somehow sneaking up onto the bed during the middle of the night). They had put down anchor in a secluded cove, close enough in that Max could jump out and swim to shore when he needed. Water laps at the boat in gentle waves, lulls them as they sleep in zipped together sleeping bags, curled into each other. He wakes at one point, bright moonlight streaming in through a porthole--nearly perfectly framed round within round. The white light burns into his retina so that even when he closes his eyes, he sees the shadow, nearly real enough to be so.

He rolls and Steven sighs, reaching out for him, bringing him in closer, burying his lips in his hair.

“Move in with me,” Steven says. He feels the movement of his mouth against his skull, the air shifting as he speaks in a sleepy murmur. Max raises his head slightly, listening to see if the conversation has anything to do with him before flopping over on his side, pressing up against Zaeed’s legs, sandwiching him in place.

“That what you wanted to talk to me about?”

Steven nods, a brief dip of his chin. “It is. You rarely go to the apartment anymore as it is. Hell, half your clothes are probably at the house anyway. Financially, you’re just wasting money. And I--what are you laughing about?”

“Financials? You’re bringing up goddamn financials?”

Steven’s own laugh is a quick huff of breath. “I...had other arguments. Most of them a bit more romantically themed.”

“Oh? And what might those be?” He slides a hand between them, cups Steven with gentle fingers.

“I--oh, fuck. I can’t...remember…beyond this reason right here.”

Zaeed laughs, grasping him, squeezing, stroking; feels him harden in pulses. “So just my superb ‘handy’ skills, eh?”

Steven’s hips buck enough to push him deeper into Zaeed’s hand. “Exactly. Should there be other reasons?”

“Not that I can bloody well think of at the moment. A man’s gotta have his priorities.”

“Damn straight.” Steven stops then, pulls away so Zaeed can see the sparkle of moonlight in his eyes. “Hang on. You didn’t answer me.”

“You didn’t make much of an argument.” His fingers continue to stroke, just light enough that Steven closes his eyes and moans. Zaeed leans in, captures his opened mouth with his own and kisses him, hard enough that their teeth hit each other and their tongues slide one over the other, tasting nighttime breath and the last vestiges of scotch they’d had before they’d retired to bed.

“Well…” he can see Steven’s brow come down, sharp lines that show his concentration, “I like having you around. Max likes having you around. You make a fairly decent shepherd’s pie—”

“Fairly decent?”

“More than decent,” the man gasps, pushes again and again into Zaeed’s tightened fist, fingers digging into his back. “Zaeed. Damnit. _Tú me vuleves loco…_ ”

Zaeed laughs as Steven slips into Spanish, the words rolling off his tongue. “Well, now we know I’m on the right track, you start spouting off in Spanish.” Which is interesting considering he’s never really done much of that before...

Steven laughs, low and throaty, taps his forehead to Zaeed’s, his hand around the back of his neck to keep them together. He continues to speak in Spanish, to which Zaeed understands nothing, catching only a few words: _amor mio_ and _corazón_.

He’s pretty sure he knows what those words mean.

He’s grateful for the near-darkness to hide what he’s damned sure is a blush warming his cheeks. Jessie had called him _darling_ and _honey_ and--when they were making love in the darkness, their bodies sweat-slick and warm against each other-- _my love_ and he’d called her _love_ and _princess_ and _sweetheart_ in that sort term of endearment one calls those nearest and dearest to one’s heart. But there’s something different about hearing the word _corazon_ \--sweetheart--from Steven. It digs down in him, plants itself in his spine and takes root in a way that no endearment from Jessie ever had.

He kisses the man for it, strokes him harder until Steven groans his name, comes in his hand, clutching Zaeed and bucking his hips, his lips moving against Zaeed’s skin as he swears under his breath in Spanish and English. Zaeed reaches behind him to grab tissues, cleans them both up as well as he can in the dark, succumbs to Steven’s kisses while his fingers find him--hard and aching--his thumb brushing over his tip.

“Well, at least I know you can provide the handies should I ever have hip surgery.”

Zaeed laughs. “At the very least.” He grunts and grabs Steven’s hand, halting him from the reciprocation he’s about to give. “Hang on a sec.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just…” he takes a deep breath. “About your question.”

“You don’t have to answer right away.”

“No, I—” In his mind’s eye he sees that damn bedroom at his apartment, chock-a-block full of boxes. He’d told himself if he ever moved, he’d go through them all, get rid of everything that he didn’t want. Purge. Defuse all the Jessie-bombs that lie in wait.

He’s just not sure if he’s ready to do that quite yet. (He wonders if he ever will be…)

Maybe he could just put it all in storage. Call up some movers, have it all taken care of. Never deal with it again. The plan builds and is discarded within seconds. If he's going to do that he may as well just donate the shit and get it over with. And say goodbye to those few things he'd ever want to keep because those would be gone too. Because he doesn't just want to pretend that Jessie never existed. Doesn't want to not remember. He knows why those boxes have been like a splinter that's gotten in lodged under his skin: shoving his life with Jessie into boxes and ignoring them is not like him. And like a splinter it has festered, nagged at him, worrying at the back of his mind. He's not the sort to shove things away in dark closets; he's the sort who meets things head on, rushes at problems like a bull. He does not let things fester.

He sighs and studies Steven in the dim light, fully aware that he needs to come clean, tamping down the small amount of anxiety at the thought of telling him. While he doesn’t give a shit what anyone else thinks about him, he might care just a little what Steven thinks. And being judged about a morass of memories lurking in a bedroom has absolutely no appeal.

Especially when stuck in a boat on a lake with only cold water between him and the shore and a long walk to civilization.

_Note to self: if things go south, grab your goddamn boxers before jumping overboard._

He explains it to Steven as best he can: how he’d had someone else pack it all, doesn’t even know what’s in there anymore (and that scares him a little, things that he’s forgotten, lurking in some deep, dark box like a scorpion ready to strike when he reaches inside). How in each box lurks a memory of Jessie that he’s not sure he’s able to face even when he knows there are things that he wants to save, mostly her paintings, her watercolors and sketchbooks, some books she’d given him.

His face burns with the shame of it, and yet to admit to it--to this hoarding of the past that has lurked in his subconscious for nearly two years--is a relief.

“I know all this,” Steven says.

“You...what?”

“You told me about it the night of the party. Granted you were falling down drunk, so I could barely understand. But I got the gist. I was helping you to your bedroom and you waved at the closed door and told me not to go in there, it’s full of ‘Jessie-bombs’. I admit I was curious. Nearly took a look, but I figured it wasn’t my business—”

“It’s not,” he snaps, angry for no reason, defensive about something he has no right to be defensive about because he’d apparently already let this particular cat out of the bag. And Steven said nothing. This entire time, Steven has said nothing about knowing.

“I know. I said that.”

“Know you did.”

“So what the hell is your problem?”

He rolls away onto his back with a sigh, pushes his hand through his hair. “Don’t fucking know. Max—” he pushes at the dog who’s still pressed up against his legs “--move your ass.” The dog slinks down off the bed and collapses on the floor with a thud and a heavy, much put-upon sigh. “Look, just--Don’t know if I’m ready to deal with it.”

“So you’re going to ignore it? Close the door and let it eat away at you? Zaeed—” Steve moves closer, props his head up on his hand to look down at him. “You don’t have to do this alone. I told you this already. But maybe it bears repeating to get through that thick skull of yours. If you want help sorting through it, you only need to ask.”

“Couldn’t ask that of you.”

“Why not? Why wouldn’t I want to help? I…” He pauses long enough to make Zaeed wonder what he’s debating in his head. “...care about you,” Steven finally finishes. “If it's something you'd want to do, let me help.”

“Steven—”

Anything he might be about to say is muffled behind Steven’s hand as he clasps it over his mouth. “I want you to move in with me. It’s been a long time since I--Even Tadius and I, for all the years we were together, we never lived together. Not really. I want that closeness. Waking up with you every morning. Arguing over your damn socks that you always leave stuck in the sofa cushion and why you let Max up on the bed.” Zaeed quirks an eyebrow at that, but Steven keeps going. “And figuring out what to make for dinner. Doing all those things that couples do because they like spending time with each other. I want all that and I want it with you. And if that means we spend a weekend or two weekends or however long it takes to sort through all those things, then I’m really okay with that. Because it’s important to you. Therefore it’s important to me. Got it?”

He nods once, his mouth still silenced behind Steven’s palm.

Slowly. Slowly. And all at once.

This is how he falls in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story of the oversexed hip surgery patient is complements of a real event that took place at potionmaster's workplace.
> 
> Tú me vuleves loco…= You drive me crazy. I had help from humblydefiant, arteinthemachine, and bardofhartdive with the Spanish.


	9. Catch You When I Fall

Saturday morning Zaeed opens the door to his apartment to Steven’s knock. He’d been on call the night before, still feels a little groggy from the late night. He waves Steven and Max in, accepts a kiss from the other man willingly. Steven casts a glance around the apartment, takes in the stack of empty boxes, the barely lived in apartment. Zaeed sees it as Steven must have that morning he’d first come over. Barren. Nothing on the walls. A minimum of furniture--just his leather club chair and ottoman, side table and lamp, and a loaded bookshelf in the living room. The two stools at the breakfast bar. The bed and dresser and bedside table in the bedroom. Goddamn depressing, now that he really looks. He wonders why Steven hadn’t just turned tail and run.

Steven sits down in the club chair with a sigh, settling into its comfortable contours. He examines a stack of books that sit on the side table, along with an ashtray, lighter, cigar cutter, plus a few cigars in a small humidor (the one Steven had given him had never migrated here at all, sits in the family room next to a new pile of books, another lighter, another cigar cutter). Max plants his butt down next to him, lays his head on his thigh.

Steven looks up and grins. “This is a nice chair.”

“I’m keeping that. I love that goddamn chair.” He swings his leg over the ottoman and sits facing Steven, pinning him in. Max lifts his head and pants at them.

“We’ll make room. It’s a nice chair.”

“Damn straight.”

“You alright? With this?” He leans forward, leather creaking as he moves. His hands come to rest on Zaeed’s thighs, brushing over the fabric of his jeans. The inkling of invitation for distraction lights up his eyes. But he’s put it off long enough.

“Yeah. Let’s get it done.” He stands and pulls Steven up with him, kissing him lightly. “Thanks.”

“Any time. Whatever you need.” Steven’s voice turns soft and husky, his eyes earnest as if trying to convey meaning that he hasn’t voiced. Their eyes lock and Zaeed wonders where all the air has gone in the room, sucked away by some magical force. Such simple words and they nearly send him reeling back onto the ottoman.

His heart pounds. It’s like it had been on the boat. Something sitting between them unsaid, but poised to leap at any time. And fuck. He’s just not ready for...that. Especially today, with Jessie so heavy in his mind, her shimmering form so clear to him. “Are you aware you do that? Or does it just happen all on it’s own.” He deflects, unable to look away from Steven’s eyes.

“Do what?”

“Flash those blues and expect me to not want to tackle you to the floor.”

Steven grins. It covers his entire face; his eyes, his mouth, even his forehead gets involved, wrinkling up in crinkles of skin. He clears any empty air between them, his hands coming to rest on Zaeed’s hips. “Zaeed Massani and his weaknesses. You continue to surprise me. Voice kink. Now eyes. Anything else you want to share with the class?”

“The rest of the class can go fuck themselves. And no. You’ve already got a big enough goddamn head as it is.”

“You really want to discuss the size of my head?” He murmurs the words in his ear, pitching his voice low and suggestive and the meaning is clear; he’s not talking about the head that sits on his shoulders. And however much Zaeed would dearly love to discuss such things, now definitely is not the time.

He steps back, very much reluctantly, with a sigh and a quirk of an eyebrow. “Hold that thought for later.”

“I can do that.”

“Alright. C’mon. Let’s get this done,” he says again. Convincing himself; or trying to at least.

He’s had very little reason to open the door to the second bedroom. None, in fact. Anything he might have needed that rested behind that door has stayed behind that door. He knows for a fact he’s repurchased several books that he could have just as easily looked for.

Not just as easily as it turns out. He takes a deep breath and opens the door and two years of stale air hits them, along with the imposing wall of boxes piled high and many deep.

“Christ.”

Steven’s hand rests on his back, just a light touch to let him know he’s there.

He takes a deep breath and steps inside, flips on the overhead light.

“How do you want to do this?”

He blinks. He hadn’t really thought it through that far. He’s pretty certain the only thing he’d thought about was opening the door. Anything beyond that was just...somehow going to sort itself out. And looking at it now, he’s not quite sure where to start. There’s just so much of it. “I don’t...know? Fuck. Where the hell did all this shit come from?” It’s a looming wall of potential memories and hurt just waiting to collapse on top of him. Max moves in past them, sniffing at the floor and corners of boxes and Zaeed finds he has to resist the urge to pull him back, call him to safety.

“How about we put all the stuff you want to save in your bedroom. The rest can be put out by the door for the movers to take for donation.”

He nods and they get to work. Two years previously, the movers had at least marked the boxes with what room they had been packed in. They find kitchen things first: plates and cups and silverware, all the pots and pans and cooking gadgets that had been wedding gifts or that Jessie had collected over the years, wine glasses thin as paper, a box full of spices and rancid olive oil. They sort through it quickly, designating most for donation or garbage with one exception: a stainless steel four-slot toaster that weighs as much as a cinder block. Steven’s eyes widen as he pulls it from the box, nearly salivating at the beauty of it.

“You should keep this.”

Even Zaeed can appreciate it, the rounded corners and pressed-metal detail. It had been a wedding gift from the dean of medicine. He shrugs and nods and watches Steven grin and carry it into the bedroom, almost reverent as he holds it. Zaeed laughs to himself, amused by the man and his admiration of fine cookware.

He pulls another box to him, slicing open the tape without a thought, expecting to find baking sheets or something not--shit--framed pictures. He swallows hard several times, reaches with trembling fingers to pull at the bubble wrap.

“Is it wrong of me to love that toaster so mu—” Steven stops mid-stride, seeing Zaeed frozen over the box, the stricken look on his face. He kneels beside him, a solid presence leaning into his side; warmth and safety that he didn’t know he needed until just then. “Do you want me to—”

“No!” Aware too late that he’d said it too forcefully, because he’s no lightweight; he can take it, he can do it himself. “No,” he says again, gentling his tone. He pulls a random frame out, tugging the adhesive strip away with a quick jerk and a pounding heart. The bubblewrap falls away so he can see the 18th century botanical illustration of herbs that Jessie had had on the wall in the kitchen. Looking further into the box he recognizes frames from the grouping it had been hung with. None of them warrant this over-emotional reaction.

“This shouldn’t be so goddamn hard.” He sets the frame aside and reaches for another, only to be stopped by Steven’s hand taking his.

“It is what it is,” Steven says.

“It’s been two years is what it is.” He looks down at the image; the delicate leaves of thyme, red salvia, rosemary, sage, and basil. “Two years last Tuesday,” he mutters and swallows down the thickness in his throat.

“Tuesday?” He hears the surprise in Steven’s voice. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

It’s a reasonable question that he can’t answer. He doesn’t know the answer. But to have given voice to it only feels like it would have given Jessie power over what’s been building between him and this solid presence of a man next to him. He shrugs and sighs, realizing his folly.

“No wonder you were out of sorts. Zaeed. _Corazón_. It’s okay to grieve.”

He turns and finds those blue eyes on him, worry and care furrowing Steven’s brow. _No, it’s not._ He doesn’t say it, chokes the words down. B _ecause if I let it out now, after all this time, it’s going to fucking split me in two._ His grief strains behind the wall he’s erected and while the last several months may have eased the tension, today the pressure has built up to near breaking. It takes all his willpower to tamp it back down. His jaw aches with the force of it; grinding his teeth down hard.

“Shit, Zaeed. _Breathe_. For god’s sake—”

It’s then he realizes his lungs burn. He takes a deep breath; pushes the hot lava of her memory further down with each shaky breath. It takes him a minute, maybe a few, before he feels more like himself. Which is to say: in control and not about to explode into a thousand splintered pieces. “Steven—”

His arms come around Zaeed slowly, enveloping him, shielding him. He doesn’t understand why Steven is here; why he puts up with him, what he sees in him. He’s broken; damaged beyond repair and wholly unsuitable for human interactions. And yet the man hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t criticized. Hasn’t drawn limits.

Has made it clear this entire thing between them is far and away about more than just sex.

Zaeed finds his own arms wrapped around him, hands spread wide as if to feel more of him, press more of him to himself. “I was out of sorts?”

“Yeah,” he says softly, the measured words buried into his neck. “You were so quiet. I caught you several times just...staring at the wall. Figured it was because of this; because of the move. I wish you had said something.” Steven’s fingers make slow movements on his back, soothing strokes as if he’s a skittish colt and Steven his handler; taming him, molding him. He pauses for a long moment before he whispers, “I wish you’d let me in.”

“I do, damnit, I—”

“No, Zaeed. You don’t.” Steven pulls back, not releasing him; but his eyes bore into him, as if searching for his core. That part of him he hides away. “There’s only so much you let me see. Like you don’t want me to know you hurt. And I know you do. I can see it in your eyes.” As if to prove that Steven doesn’t hold it against him, he leans forward and presses a kiss to first one eyelid and then the other, his lips lingering just at the corner where his scar curves before continuing up to his forehead. “I’m not going to think worse of you because you’re in pain. I’m not just here for my own entertainment, you know. Being there for each other, supporting each other. That’s what this is. Isn’t it? I want to help. However I’m able. Please. Let me help.”

He’d spent so long being strong. For Jessie during her illness. For his own sanity during and after. His entire life, really. To have someone offering, almost demanding that Zaeed lean on him it was...so unfamiliar as to be incomprehensible. He has no idea how to even start; or if he’s capable. Or if he wants to.

“Don’t...know how.” He grinds the words out, up from frozen lungs, past his tightly constricted throat. His palms sweat with the admission. He hides the fact by clenching at Steven’s shirt, burying his face in the warm corner of his neck and inhaling a deep breath full of the scent of him. And Steven cradles him; holds him like he’s fragile.

How many times has he felt that way since Jessie died? Like he’s made of glass, will shatter at any moment into sand. And he has always kept that inside, kept a rein on his emotions so tightly his jaw aches from it. It’s an old habit learned from his childhood: never let his father see he can hurt him. As ingrained as breathing. And it takes everything in him--all his muscle control over fight or flight--to not get up and leave. It’s nothing for Steven to hold him like this: one hand cupping the back of his head and the other resting lightly between Zaeed’s shoulder blades. It’s nothing for Steven.

But it’s everything for Zaeed.

He tightens his grip, knuckles throbbing from the pressure, and heaves a dry sob into Steven’s skin, his shoulders shaking just once with the force of built up pressure. He hates the weakness he shows. “Fuck! Steven—” In an instant he realizes what he’s done, is horrified at himself. He pushes Steven away, nearly stumbles in his haste to stand and retreat.

“Zaeed?”

“No. You…” He takes a step back. “What the hell are you doing?” He’s not sure if he’s talking to Steven or to himself. If he’s honest: both. Why would Steven want to pursue a relationship with him? He’s broken, a hoarded up mess of memories and useless shite. He swallows down the taste of bile and turns, makes a bee-line to the kitchen to pull down a glass and a bottle of scotch--whatever time it is in the morning be damned. The whiskey burns, his stomach clenching as it hits.

“Hey,” Steven’s soft voice behind him, offering comfort and understanding, grates in his ears. “What’s going on?”

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t acknowledge him. Instead he pours himself another and stares at the cupboard after he drinks it down. The alcohol hits his bloodstream--he can feel the rushing prickle of it in his fingertips. He moves to pour himself another but Steven’s hand lands on his arm. He shrugs it off. “No. Steven. Just...back the fuck off.”

“Okay.” The man takes a step back, giving him space. “Tell me what’s going on in that brain of yours.”

He turns just enough to look at Steven from the corner of his eye and wishes he hadn’t. Sympathy and concern and pain: it’s all there clear as day on the man’s face. “Don’t fucking pity me.”

“I’m not—”

Zaeed’s laugh is sour in his throat, caught up in the tight bottleneck of emotion that’s lodged itself there. “Like hell.” He chases the emotions down, swallows more whiskey, his head beginning to feel thick with a slow-burning rage he’s pushed aside for two years. “What the fuck’re you hanging around for anyway?” He grimaces at the self-disdain he can hear in his own voice. “Not like this relationship has been any good for you.”

“What? You’re delusional. Or...distraught. Or...something.”

Zaeed shakes his head and finishes off the last of the whiskey in his glass. His heart is pounding, nearly tripping over itself to escape the self-immolation it sees coming. He stares into the empty glass, trying to find some reason to not say what he’s thinking. He doesn’t find anything but an empty glass.

“Don’t think I can do this.”

He mutters the words and Steven freezes, leaning on the counter, not breathing, just staring at him like he’s lost his mind. Which he probably has. But the self-doubt worms its way in and all he can think about is losing Jessie and not wanting to go through that again, not wanting his heart hurt, not wanting the responsibility of surviving on afterwards. What happens if he and Steven break up in a year or two? What happens with all those awkward meetings in the office? The disappointment of failing? He should have thought this through. He should have put an end to it all before it ever started. He can’t stop the desperate round-and-round _What if? What if? What if?_

“What--What do you mean?” Steven’s question is tight in the air, like he managed to barely choke it out. He can’t bring himself to look at him now, stares into the empty glass as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. “Zaeed…?”

“I don’t get why you’re here. Why you put up with me. There’s no reason—”

“Damnit, Zaeed. If you don’t…” Steven pauses for a moment. He sighs and it’s weighted, heavy with so much unsaid between them. “If you don’t know by now that I love you—”

“Don’t! Don’t say that. _Fuck_.” His heart pounds so hard he feels it in his throat. He cringes at the words because he knew-- _he knew_. It cuts him in two: the side that needs to hear the words, hear the confirmation of what's been building between them; and the side that desperately wants to turn away, to pretend the last six months have never happened. To pretend he doesn't feel the same.

“Why not? When it’s the truth.” Zaeed hears the sorrow in the man’s voice and bloody hell if that doesn’t cut hard. Already he’s bringing the man pain. And he doesn’t want that, either.

“You don’t. You can’t—”

“Don’t tell me what I feel!” Steven barks at him, and he’s angry now. Zaeed can deal with angry, just not that kicked puppy look he was getting a moment before. He turns slightly, relinquishing his gaze from the wood grain of cupboard to Steven. His eyes are blue fire, brilliant and full of a ferocity that nearly sets him back a few paces. His brows--those goddamn eyebrows--are drawn down; thunder on his face. He looks like he’s ready to kick Zaeed across the state.

He’s never looked more glorious. And Zaeed is finding his heart is beating for a whole new reason. “Goddamnit, Steven. Don’t look at me like that.”

“How the fuck should I look at you? You push me away. You don’t tell me why. And then you tell me you can’t do this anymore? You try to tell me how to fucking feel. You’re not exactly racking up the romance points right now.” His teeth clench so hard Zaeed can see the muscles of his jaw work back and forth. “Explain to me how I’m supposed to not look at you like I’m fucking pissed at you!” His voice rises with each word until he’s shouting by the end. Steven bangs his fist on the counter with the last, punctuating his anger.

His mouth is dry, tongue frozen in place. He turns back to the whiskey, wets his mouth with a swallow. He speaks into the glass. “I can’t.”

“Godfucking-- _Damnit_!” The man pushes away from the counter, disappears from his peripheral view. “Don’t do this, Zaeed. Don’t push me away...” A plea. It tugs at his heart and he nearly gives in, turns and asks forgiveness for being beyond an asshole. But his mind returns to the bedroom full of boxes; the pain that resides inside each and every one. Better to be alone than to make himself available to that kind of agony again. He realizes the folly of the thought: that he more than just cares for Steven, that he is causing each of them pain. But he’s caught in the downhill slide with nothing to grab hold beyond his own old wounds, so recently yanked open and raw.

“I...can’t,” he says again. There’s a finality to it that makes his heart stop. “I’m sorry, Steven—”

“Bullshit! You’re not sorry. You’re selfish. I thought...I wanted... _Christ_! Fucking unbelievable...” The last is muttered under his breath. Zaeed hears him move through the room with a sharp, “Max! Heel!” The door opens and slams shut and the apartment is suddenly still, a death tomb. He barely manages to breathe.

The pure stupidity of what he’s just done hits him like a wall. He stumbles back--half-drunk--to land on the floor. His back hits the kitchen island, a door pull digging into his back. He tucks his knees up against his chest and leans his head on his arms, hands raking through his hair.

_Stupidstupidstupid. So utterly fucking goddamn stupid._

~~~~~

Nothing escapes Kasumi’s sharp eyes Monday morning. But he makes it easy for her, he supposes. Even he admits to himself he looks like shit. What little sleep he managed over the weekend was restless, guilt hanging over him thick and hot. Steven has surgery Monday mornings, so he knows he’ll probably be able to dodge him for a little while at least. But it’s inevitable. At some point he’s going to run into him and he can formulate in his mind no justifiable response to Steven’s anger. But he doesn’t fear the anger so much as the more likely stone cold silence. That, he doesn’t think he could bare.

“You look like hell warmed up.” Kasumi clicks her tongue at him from the doorway of his office, tutting like a mother hen. “Late night with Steven?” Her less than innocent grin falls quickly when he scowls at her, to be replaced with worry. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.” She steps closer, peering at him over the tablet she holds in both hands. “C’mon, Doc—”

His cell phone buzzes and his heart thuds heavy in his chest. But it’s not Steven. Why would it be Steven? Caller ID declares it to be the woman who manages the house in Costa Rica and he uses it as an excuse to get out of whatever digging into his personal life Kasumi might think she can get away with. “Need to take this. Be right down.”

She narrows her eyes at him, but ducks out of his office after handing over the tablet.

“Dr. Massani?” The woman’s accent is thick with Spanish. “I’m sorry to call, but there’s been a break-in at your house. They came in through a window and it looks like all the appliances and anything electronic has been taken. I hope you don’t mind, I went through the house to check it over. It appears there had been some medical equipment in one of the downstairs bedrooms and I wasn’t sure if anything there had been stolen. Some of your personal items perhaps had been gone through. Looking for valuables, maybe? The insurance company will need to have a list of everything—”

“I can come down this weekend.”

“It doesn’t have to be that quickly, doctor. Within the next month perhaps? I know you must be busy. I’ve seen to it that the window has been boarded for now. And a new window will be installed.”

“Okay, that’s fine. I’ll come this weekend. I need to…” _get the fuck away_ “...reschedule some things. I’ll let you know when exactly.”

“If you’re sure.”

He tries not to breathe a sigh of relief when he hangs up. “Clear my schedule Thursday and Friday,” he tells Kasumi when he meets her in the pod. “And I’m on call for the practice Saturday. See if that can be switched to tomorrow night or Wednesday. If not I’ll take an extra call sometime later.”

“Now what’s happened?”

He tells her about the call, the need to go down to the house. He fudges the truth about the urgency. And clearly she doesn’t buy it.

“You have to go _now_? It can’t wait? It’ll be easier to reschedule for a couple weeks from now—”

“Just get it done,” he barks. And then regrets it, rubs his hand over his face with a tired sigh. “Come on, let’s get to work.”

He’s running away. And he knows it. They both do.

~~~~~

He catches sight of Steven only once in the three days before he leaves and it nearly breaks him: the sight of his back bent over as he reads a tablet while he walks, Jenkins at his side. It halts Zaeed in his tracks, frozen in place without breathing until they turn the corner and disappear from view. His heart aches, lonely with regret.

His life is suddenly empty and joyless and he wonders how he managed in those months after Jessie died. He must have been a ghost, going through the motions. He’s barely able to think of a reason to put one foot in front of the other. He doesn’t like that feeling at all.

“Hey, Dr. Z. You okay?”

He realizes he’s blocking the hall, standing frozen in the middle. Kaidan Alenko stands behind him, just to the side. How long has he been standing there watching and waiting for him to move?

“Yeah. I...uh...sorry.” He shifts over, can’t recall where he’d been going in the first place.

“You look, um--Everything alright?” There’s only concern on Kaidan’s face, a worried look to his eyes.

“Fine.”

“Okay.” The other man takes a step, but then turns back. “Hey, I picked up your Saturday call. Let me know if you need any extra time next week. I’m happy to help out.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Kaidan. Yeah. I’ll uh...let you know.” Zaeed swallows hard at the sympathy in the man’s voice. He waves his hand and returns the way he had come. He sits down in his office chair and can’t remember why he had left it.

~~~~~

**Gulf Coast, south of Lima, Costa Rica**

There’s no ice. No refrigerator; therefore, no ice. So he’s glad he bought decent whiskey at the duty-free, rather than relying on his faulty memory of what might still be in the cupboards (the thieves had helped themselves to whatever liquor had been in the house in addition to any- and everything electronic, so it wouldn’t have mattered anyway).

He stands in the shelter of the balcony, watching the late afternoon summer rain drip from large fronds, fat raindrops tapping away arrhythmically in the beat of the rain forest. The scotch burns; warm with oak and caramel and spicy pepper. It soothes his frayed nerves, but not the loneliness. Not the ache to have Steven there with him; a solid presence next to him. It had felt strange, getting on the plane and not letting Steven know where he was going. Like he could just disappear and never be heard from again and no one would wonder where he’d gone off to. And for the first time in several years, Zaeed thinks perhaps that would bother him: other people not knowing, not caring.

It would be nice if at least one person would give a good goddamn.

Behind him, the upstairs master bedroom looms: the king-sized poster bed, the polished wood floors. It’s light and airy, the far end of the pitched roof all windows, the near end windows and french doors that open out onto the balcony. He stands and looks out over the white sand beach and the rolling waves of the gulf.

He hasn’t, in fact, stood on that balcony for a long time. When they’d come the last time Jessie hadn’t been able to navigate the stairs. They’d set up her hospital bed in one of the bedrooms on the main floor and he’d slept in the twin in the same room; always there, always with her when she needed (until that one time when he wasn’t). He turns and leans on the balcony railing to study the bed. Mosquito netting shifts in the slight breeze, sheets and pillows neatly stacked on one corner. Vivid memories of making love to Jessie assault him: sleeping naked next to her, waking with her soft and warm against him, the feel of the sheets over their bodies, the sounds of the forest waking around them. It’s all too much. He swallows the rest of the whiskey in his glass in a gulp and swears to never sleep in that bed again.

He’s not sure why he’s even up here. He’d wandered through the house when he’d arrived, mentally listing everything that had been stolen. He’d come up once to confirm the TV and blu-ray player were gone (and the few DVD’s they’d had here) before moving on to the kitchen where he’d stood and listed everything out on paper. The house looks half put together (or torn apart). Furniture still in place; gaping spaces where the fridge and washer and dryer had once stood. He’d found a glass and rinsed it of two years of dust, poured himself a generous amount of whiskey. And then he’d found himself upstairs, walking softly over the wood floors, skirting the bed to open the door to the balcony, watching the rain and trying to not listen for the soft pad of footsteps that he knows he will never hear again.

~~~~~

He wanders the house, restless and yet listless. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s never been in this house alone before. The rain keeps him inside, aimless steps carry him from one corner to the other and back again. She is everywhere here. Her paintings on the walls, her seashells in a glass, her knit blanket over the back of the sofa. Even her shoes by the front door, her clothes in the closet and in the dresser drawers. The bathroom still holds her toothbrush, her shampoo, her bar of soap--dried out and peeling in layers of disuse. Her hairbrush rests on top of the dresser, long strands of dark brown hair that curl uncontrollably. He remembers how it felt, pushing his fingers through her hair, the curls twining themselves around his fingers. He tightens his hands into fists and shoves them in his pockets to prevent himself from reaching out now.

He stands in the room where she died. His eyes travel over the two beds--hers clinical and shining with stainless steel, his the bed of someone only just getting used to the idea of sleeping alone. There’s a book on his bedside table--a spy thriller he’d been reading to try and take his mind off the pain his wife had been suffering through. By her bed is a stack of books and magazines and several sketchbooks, a jar of pens and pencils, a remote for a TV no longer in the house.

He lays down on the twin bed where he’d slept for seventeen months, his head propped on his arm. He counts the cracks in the ceiling.

~~~~~

He wakes to the sound of evening; slow drumbeat of the waves at low tide, creatures calling each other in the trees, the wet drip of flora after a rain. His stomach protests the lack of lunch and dinner and he fights back the feeling of nausea. There is no food in the house and even if there were, no stove to cook on. He checks the time. There’s a bodega and taqueria just down the road. If he’s lucky, they’ll still be open.

He’s lucky.

He eats fish tacos standing at the counter; washes it down with a cold beer. He grabs fruit and bread for breakfast, laments the lack of coffee (the thieves had taken the coffee maker as well), but decides he can make do for a couple days. Tomorrow he’ll go to Lima and order appliances; the manager can deal with deliveries and installation later. He wishes Jessie were there; his Spanish is rudimentary at best. (Jessie had always said he knew just enough to be insulting.) But how hard can it be to point and sign a credit card receipt?

It’s dark when he returns and the house is eerie with quiet; as if waiting for someone else to arrive before taking a breath. He resists the urge to creep through the house, purposefully makes noise that echoes against the walls. He skims through the titles on the bookshelf, but finds none of them appealing. The book he’d been reading before holds no interest now. Out of desperation he shuffles through the books at Jessie’s bedside--old gossip magazines, a biography of Katharine Hepburn, a daily motivational that he’s surprised to see. He grabs up her sketchbooks and makes his way to the sofa where he pours himself another whiskey. He turns the pages slowly; interior drawings of their house in Normandy, details of her hands, details of pill bottles and syringes. At one point she must have picked up a landscape art book and copied from that--desperate for anything to draw. There’s a few of him sitting in the study where he would wheel her in and they’d sit together in the evenings; he’d tell her about new patients and she’d lament that she was bored to tears.

The last few drawings in the book are of the beach. The change in style is abrupt: the lines become shaky, the detail less fine, many are incomplete. The second book is barely a quarter full. She’d had less and less energy, had found it difficult to concentrate. The lines are hesitant in a way that makes him ache with regret. He sees himself lying on the bed, but there’s only the lower half of him. His head and torso are obscured by her bedside table. There are several of her legs and feet covered by a blanket, the bottom rail of her bed, the view from the window looking up through the trees.

And then he finds the letter, written in a bastardization of her fine hand. It covers several pages and after it is the screaming emptiness of the remainder of the sketchbook.

 

_My love-_

_I realize now that asking for your help to end this pain was unfair to you. I shouldn’t have. I would never ask you to risk your career as a doctor, and yet that’s exactly what I did. I’m sorry. It was selfish of me._

_This is what’s going to happen--you’ll blame yourself for my death. You’ll be angry at me. But you won’t allow yourself to say it. Giving you advice and expecting that you’ll follow it is a bit like trying to turn the tides. A fruitless, thankless endeavor. But it has never stopped me from trying before, so why should I stop now?_

_Listen to me when I tell you this is not the end for you. Listen to me when I ask why would you forgive me for the affair, but not forgive yourself for failing to save me? Listen to me, my darling, my love. There are no guarantees. You of all people know this in everything else._

_You are so brave. You have been so strong for me. I could never have gone this far on my own. But now it’s time for you. Today is a new day. Please embrace it._

_Let me go._

_Have a happier life than you ever could have had with me._

_And forgive me for what I’m about to do. I can feel myself slipping away. I can't live anymore in this husk of a body. I do love you, but the pain is unbearable._

_Jessie_

_perhaps it’s time for you to find out what you want, what you need_

 

He reads the letter again and again, devouring her final words. Words he hadn’t had the luxury of hearing from her in person. Because she’d taken that away from him, denied him by swallowing down pills when he was gone. Anger at her, at her final act, at her betrayal builds in his gut fueled by the years of tamping it down. He blames her for displacing her pain onto himself, for dying alone, for not even allowing him to be by her side in those final moments. She took herself away. Took her love away. And left him with nothing but an empty house and a hole in his heart so large it threatens to engulf him entirely.

His head throbs with the pain of sorrow. He throws the book aside. His grief bubbles up, gaseous and oily with the filth of years of denial. His throat burns as he screams “Fuck!” and “Fuck!” and “God _fucking_ damnit, Jess! I fucking _loved_ you! Fuck you!” The glass shatters against the wall where he throws it, golden liquid spraying in an arc in the dim light. It's not enough. He lifts the coffee table and tips it, sends the contents flying across the room with a roar. Zaeed clutches his head in his hands, a sisyphean task to hold all the emotion in. He fails.

He bellows in anger, mourns her and cries as he hasn’t been able. Alone with his grief, no one there to comfort him but the relic of her words, his body racked with tortured lament. It’s all he knows: that he misses her, that he loved her, that he wants to let her go. He allows himself to cry because he can’t think of anything else. So he pulls her image close, buries himself in memories of her, wallows in what he can no longer have.

He remembers why he loved her: her wild embrace of life, her joy, her focus when she was drawing, her need to plow ahead through any road block, her passion. He also remembers the things that drove him crazy: her amazing ability to elude work, the way she didn't take care of her health in those last years, her self-centered focus on her own desires and needs. She pulled him in twenty different directions at once whether he had been willing or not. He loved her for it and resented her at the same time.

If only he could go back. If only he could tell her all those things he never had the courage to say: how much he loved her, how he cherished her, how lucky he was that she chose him, that she came back to him. He wants to tell her he will never forget her smile, the color of her eyes, the feel of her skin. But even as he thinks it he knows it’s a lie. These things are already fading. She has become a hazy memory that haunts his dreams more than his waking life. She’s slipping through his fingers and there is nothing he can do to stop it.

And then Zaeed thinks of Steven: wonders at the possibility that he threw away so casually. He's a fool of the highest order, remarkable in his stupidity. Steven told him he loved him and in return Zaeed shoved him away. He holds no hope to repair the damage. He wouldn't blame the other man for harboring a healthy and lifelong hatred for him. But Zaeed can’t let it lay. He has to apologize. He surveys the wide expanse of loss in his chest and knows without a doubt Steven most likely is feeling something akin to this. And that knowledge worries at his conscience. Zaeed has to apologize for causing that pain.

He cradles his phone in his hands, brings up Steven’s contact information. His thumb hovers over the ‘call’ button for long minutes as he debates the wisdom of such an action. In the end, he puts the phone down. Unsure of the words. Ashamed of the distance he put between them.

Eventually, his body wasted with the effort, he lays sideways on the sofa, staring and numb. He sleeps and in his dreams Jessie walks ahead of him, further and further ahead until he only sees her scarf that is carried by the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides behind sofa*


	10. Talk Some Sense to Me

For all his bravado, when faced with the prospect of marching up to Steven and apologizing, Zaeed drags his heels on several occasions, finds reasons not to, pressing things to do instead. He creates busy work for himself by grabbing up additional nights on call when one of the other doctors gets sick. Kasumi scolds him for moping, which he supposes he does, but he feels emptied of emotion. Running on fumes and habit.

His only bright spot in the week after he returns is Lucy. He’s glad to see her. Even more happy that her mum didn’t pin blame on him and decide to scarper off to another doctor (or quit Lucy’s treatment altogether). She brings him another drawing, the edge rough from being pulled from her notebook: this time a picture of himself wearing his lab coat, arms crossed and looking every inch a stern and unforgiving doctor. Kasumi stands next to him, one of her signature duct tape rose topped pens in her hand. Her eyes are perfect, drawn with careful detail. His scar veers off slightly down to his jaw. There are creases in their clothes, buttons on his coat, stripes on his tie, scuff marks on their shoes. He stares at the picture and can barely suppress the sudden idea that he has.

But first things first.

There are no bruises that he can see, and her spine is aligning better than before. He confirms with Lucy’s mother that she’s wearing the brace consistently. He praises her for the improvement and tells her if that keeps up in a couple years she’ll be able to take it off and leave it off and never have to worry about it again. She cheers up at that. So he keeps the ball rolling, as it were, and tells her about Jessie’s art supplies that are just sitting there, unused and if she wants them, if it’s alright with her mum, she’s welcome to them. “Better that someone use them than they sit around in a box. Not even sure what the h--what’s in them. She liked chalks and watercolors, but probably other mediums in there as well.”

Her eyes light up as he describes his idea, even moreso when he mentions the paints. She nods, eager, but then pulls herself up short, looking to her mother for approval. Lucy’s mother gives them both a long, considering look before she agrees and Lucy is down off the exam table hugging his leg before he can breathe a second breath.

Whatever else might happen this week, at least he’s gotten one thing to go right.

~~~~~

Friday he procrastinates in his office, finishing off paperwork that’s languished, clearing off his desk for the first time in months. The weekend stretches before him; no work, no call until Sunday night. The emptiness of it would be a boon to anyone else, even himself only a few weeks ago. He toys with his phone several times, contemplating texting Steven but not sure what to say. So he says nothing and feels even more like an ass.

There’s construction blocking off his normal exit from the parking lot, so he’s forced to drive around to the other side of the building. It’s after hours, most people having fled the practice an hour ago. Steven’s BMW stands out, a shining beacon of understated taste. His pulse quickens at the thought of Steven still inside. He wonders briefly why he’s there so late, then decides it doesn’t matter. He parks next to the car and gets out, leaning on his hood. He’ll wait all night if he has to. His heart aches with the need to see Steven, to apologize. And while he holds out no hope that they could ever be together again, he has to admit there’s a part of himself that won’t let the idea go.

He’s lost in thought. Doesn’t hear the approaching footsteps, or Steven clear his throat. His brain does register a much put-upon sigh and Steven asking, “What do you want, Zaeed?” He sounds tired, worn down. His voice sends a thrill down Zaeed’s spine. He looks up into those brilliant blue eyes and has to keep himself from drowning in them.

“I, uh—”

“When are you coming to pick up your shit?” Steven interrupts and Zaeed can hear the anger, the words bitten off. His heart sinks, shrivels, dries up and crumbles to dust. Whatever he was going to say is forgotten in the wash of Steven’s fermented anger. “Because I’m tired of looking at it.”

“I..tomorrow?”

“Fine.” Steven pauses, his eyes softening for a moment. If he hadn’t been watching just then he would have missed it. But a mask of careful indifference comes down and Steven moves away, unlocking his car. “Ten?”

“Yeah. Alright.”

The door shuts with quiet dignity, the car starts up and pulls away without another word from either of them. Zaeed sees the car move off in his periphery before he closes his eyes and swears to high heaven.

~~~~~

It seems like years since he’s been to Steven’s house instead of a matter of a few weeks. He hears Max bark inside the house as he parks the car and pulls an empty suitcase from the boot. And then the door opens and Max rushes out, nearly pushing him over in his enthusiasm. “Hey, Max.” Zaeed crouches down and lets the dog lick him, grabbing onto the fine fur to keep all four legs on the ground. He looks over the dog’s back to see Steven standing in the door, arms crossed and brow down in a scowl. He sighs and pets the dog again. At least someone in the house had missed him.

Steven just nods him in without a word of welcome, his jaw clenched with tension. “I didn’t move anything. It’s all where you left it.”

Zaeed makes his way upstairs with the suitcase. He can feel Steven’s eyes bore into his back, but the man stays downstairs like he doesn’t want to even be in the same room together. Which does not bode well for work. He sighs heavily and sets to work, gathering up all the clothes in the dresser drawers where Steven had made room for him. He stacks the clothes on hangers on the bed in a pile, amazed at how many clothes he actually has in Steven’s closet. Then he hits the bathroom, gathering up toothbrush and razor and shampoo. He comes out of the bathroom with his arms loaded, stops short when he sees Steven standing at the end of the bed with the humidor in his arms.

“I..still want you to have this.” The man doesn’t look at him, runs his hand over the smooth inlaid carving on the top of the cedar box.

“No, I can’t—”

“I gave it to you. Keep it.” He sets it inside the suitcase, decision already made. He straightens and looks at Zaeed and there’s so much pain and hurt in his eyes, Zaeed feels all the breath in his lungs sucked away.

“Fuck, Steven. I’m a goddamn ass—”

“Yes, you are.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. Just unforgiving anger.

The memory of anguish and betrayal because of Jessie is still fresh, how it felt to know he had done that to someone he cares about. He dumps the load in the arms on the bed, determined to apologize. But Steven is already turning away, waving at Max to come with him out the bedroom door. Any chance Zaeed might have is quickly walking away.

His heart races faster with each step Steven takes away from him.

“I hurt you,” he blurts out. “I know I hurt you. I didn’t mean it. I never would…” he sighs, clenches his fists to his sides. “There’s nothing I can say that will erase what happened, but for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” Steven halts at that, his back still to him, halfway out the door. “If I could take it all back, I would. Pushing you away was the biggest fucking mistake I’ve made in my life and I can’t…” _live without you_ “I’m not…” _happy_. He talks to Steven’s back, grateful that at least the other man is hearing him out. “Look, it doesn’t excuse what I said. But I know I’m messed up when it comes to...her. I know there’s some shit I need to deal with and you got caught in the middle. It wasn’t fair to you. And I’m sorry. I wish you could know how fucking sorry I am.”

Something in the air changes. A release of tension as Steven’s shoulders straighten. “I told myself the only thing I’d hear from you was an apology,” he says, so softly Zaeed isn’t even really sure he’s heard him right. “I never really expected…” he turns then and the look he gives Zaeed is full of a shy sort of...hope. “I honestly thought you’d never do it. You surprise me.”

Zaeed’s not really sure what to make of that, but he presses on, grasping at the only thought that has seized his brain. “I’ve...goddamnit, Steven. I’ve missed you. I don’t...I can’t—” He sits on the bed, head bowed, talking to the floor and hoping Steven is still listening. “I went down there, to Costa Rica. There was a break-in. Wouldn't have had to go but it was a convenient excuse to get the hell away. Figure a couple things out.” He chances a glance up, sees Steven is still there; watching, listening. Max ambles over and lays on Zaeed's feet as if to keep him there. “That's a lie. I went there to lick my wounds. Run away, more like. Fuck…” He shakes his head.

“Doesn't seem like you,” Steven says. He leans back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

Zaeed laughs softly, but there's no mirth in it. Only self deprecation. He looks down at the dog, because the intensity of Steven's gaze feels like hot coals in his thoughts. “I was...I _am_ ashamed. How I treated you. It was easier to go deal with shit down there than stay here and try to figure out convoluted ways to avoid you.” He rubs his hands down over his face, swallowing hard. His pride sits in his throat like a boulder and it will either choke him or drop down into his stomach and behave. He's determined to not let it get the best of him again.

“Went through some things down there. Found one of Jessie's old sketchbooks. She left me a note. Never knew about it before then. Nearly two years and it just sat there waiting. Probably wouldn't have been able to read it had I known about it before anyway. She…I’ve never told anyone.” He pauses, steels himself. “She killed herself. I was gone. At a conference. She had asked me to help her, a couple weeks before. Told me it was getting so bad she couldn’t take it anymore. And I fucking told her ‘no’ because I was selfish, didn’t want to cut short the time we had left together. But even more, I didn’t...if something went wrong, it would put my license in jeopardy. So I did nothing. Should have called in psychiatric help. Should have made sure there was someone with her all day, every day. But it was just me and a nurse and I went off to a goddamn conference and when I came back she was dead and how the fuck am I supposed to reconcile that?” His voice raises in anger, his face flushed and hands trembling. He’s back in that moment, getting off the plane and turning on his phone to voice mail messages that would bring his life to a sudden halt. “My fault she was left alone! My fault I hadn’t made it clear to keep the meds out of her reach! And it’s my fucking fault she’s dead and I wasn’t even there to—”

He chokes on the words, knowing there would have been no stopping her once she’d made up her mind. He’d lured himself into false hope. That something could have been done and she would have just continued on. However much that would have kept her in a purgatory of hellish agony. He hates himself for the thought. He hates himself even more that it doesn’t change his mind. Even now, years later.

The bed sinks as Steven sits next to him; he keeps distance between them, but sits with a sigh. He says, “I’m sorry, Zaeed. I really am. I had no idea.” And for all Zaeed has never wanted his pity, or anyone’s for that matter, the words laced with genuine sorrow sink in and he knows it’s not pity. Not from Steven.

“No one did. Not really. Didn’t know how to fucking tell people. Enough that she died. They could infer whatever the fuck they wanted. Didn’t even tell her parents the goddamn truth. Because what does it matter? They bloody well didn’t need that on top of everything else.” His shoulders slump and he sags down in on himself, defeated by his own misplaced sense of pride. “They trusted what I told them was the truth. And I’m a goddamn bastard for lying to them.”

Steven moves slightly in what could be a shrug. “I’m not sure that really matters at this point. Perhaps if she hadn’t been sick and she had—” He leaves the rest of the thought unsaid. “But she’d been sick for years, fighting the cancer for years. Her taking matters into her own hands doesn’t change that. And it doesn’t change the fact that you did what you thought was right at the time. You couldn’t have known—”

“I bloody well should have. Stubborn old bitch.”

Steven reaches out and his touch is gentle on Zaeed’s arm, resting on the tattoos that have circled his arm since he was a teenager. The fingers squeeze lightly once and then the warmth of his fingertips is gone. “So what did the letter say?” Steven asks, and then he’s quick to amend the question with, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.”

He does want; so he knows more about him and what the last two years have been like, what their marriage was like however imperfect. Because there was so much wrong with his and Jessie’s marriage. Things that had festered between them; betrayal and hurt, angry words that couldn’t be taken back, thoughtless actions that drove daggers into each other. He knows he had been a fool to hold her up, to keep her on that pedestal. And yet he had. Because he didn’t have anyone else. Because he didn’t know any better. He’d been too busy to think it could be any different. And he had loved her, in spite of it all.

So he tells Steven about the letter: how she had retracted her request, how she had told him to move on, how she had known how pissed he would be at her. “Our marriage was...volatile. At best. Exhausting sometimes. She was wild and willful, almost feral in a way. All this passion bubbling just under the surface. Never deceived myself to believe I could ever tame her. Never wanted to try. Not when she was with me. But there were times. I couldn’t be there. It was why we moved here. To Normandy. To get away from all that. What had happened.” Zaeed’s heart hammers in his chest, his mouth dry. No one knew then but those involved. No one knew now. He and Jessie had barely been able to admit it to themselves.

Steven says, “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

Zaeed swallows, his gaze still fixed on the dog. “She had an affair,” he says finally. “At least one that she admitted to me. But...there may have been more. I shouldn’t be surprised if there were. We moved because of the first one. Because my working in a teaching hospital kept me away too much. She had too much time alone and she hated being alone. So I took the job here. Steady hours. We could work together. Put the past behind us. It worked for a while. But she was...flighty. Self-involved. If the cancer hadn’t come back when it did, god only knows how many she would have—”

“Stop. Christ! Stop. You can’t beat yourself up over something that never happened.”

“The fact is I didn’t trust her,” Zaeed says. He can taste the bitter anger on his tongue, his mouth pulled back in a grimace of distaste. “We stayed together because it was familiar. Fucked up and familiar. I can’t…” He turns at last to find Steven’s deep blue eyes on him intent and concerned. “Can’t do that anymore. Can’t live on pins and needles anymore, constantly worried that it’s going to go tits up. But I fucking don’t know how to do that. Don’t know if I can.”

“What is it you do want, Zaeed? After all this. Now that you know what you don’t want.” Steven’s voice cracks, as if his throat is tight.

Zaeed studies him. He’s known since he read the words in Jessie’s sketchbook. His heart hammers harder. Because it’s a risk. But he sits up straighter and lays his cards out on the table. “I want you. I want...a future with you. To wake up with you. Go to bed with you. I want to trust you. And I fucking never want to hurt you again. Rather shoot my own foot off—”

It’s only a couple of inches; only a second of time to pass. Steven closes the gap between them and then arms wrap around Zaeed tight, and Steven’s mouth is on his and his life starts back up again; blood pumping through his veins, heart beating against Steven’s chest.

Just as quickly as it had begun the kiss is over and Steven pulls away, holds Zaeed’s head in his hands, thumbs stroking over lips and jaw. His face is somber, eyes searching Zaeed’s. “Christ, I’ve missed you,” he whispers. “You’re such a fucking—” Anger returns to his eyes and he pulls away and every muscle in Zaeed’s hands and arms wants to yank him back, but he lets go, his heart sinking in his chest. Resigns himself to never have Steven in his arms again. Whatever lapse had made the man close the distance between them, he must be regretting now as he drops his arms and leans back.

“I can’t…” Steven swipes his hand through his hair, looking tired and harried. “I can’t do this again. Not without…” he stops and regards Zaeed, his eyes hard and determined. “Not without some ground rules.”

And just as suddenly as his hopes had been dashed, he grasps at the thin possibility of Steven’s words. He swallows hard. Pride be damned. “I’d like a second chance, Steven. If you...if you’re willing…” His heart picks up speed again; his fingers tremble slightly.

“I get the tough guy act. I really do. I have to admit, it’s one of the things that drew me to you. But I need you to talk to me. And more importantly, I think you should talk to a grief counselor. Tell me or not what’s going on in that fucked-up head of yours about Jessie, but you can’t keep it all bottled up inside. You have to work through it or it’s going to kill any relationship you try to have.”

He nods. It makes sense, now that he hears it from Steven. Even though he never would have considered it on his own. “Yeah. Alright.”

Steven’s eyes flick to his as if to confirm his sincerity. He draws a breath in, reaches out for Zaeed but just as quickly puts his hand down, sliding his hands under his legs as if he needs that extra bit of pressure to keep himself from reaching out and touching. “I think I pushed you too hard. Moved too fast. I just...for some reason that I can’t fathom, I like you. And I want to be with you. I stand by what I said at your apartment.” He looks up to make sure Zaeed knows what he’s talking about. “I still do for some ungodly reason. But I won’t say it again, not until you’re ready. I can wait. We can slow things down.”

Zaeed nods again, heart firmly lodged in his throat. “I’d...like that.”

They sit quietly for several moments, watching each other--Steven leary and Zaeed unsure. After a time, the not knowing finally makes Zaeed say, “So what happens now?”

Steven sighs heavily, casts a glance over his shoulder at Zaeed’s clothes. “I think...you should keep some things here. Take most of it home. We start over. Build the trust back up. Figure out how to do this. Because I do. Want this. I want you. Fucking hell—” His breath is shaky as he draws in a gasp of air. “But I want to do this right. Take the time to do it right.”

“Yeah. I...uh—” Steven’s hand clasps over his own. He looks down at their hands, at Steven’s long fingers draped over his. Zaeed turns his over. Their fingers twine together and his heart sings at the touch. He looks up and grins. “Yeah.”

Steven leans close, whispers, “Hold still.” And his lips touch the corner of Zaeed’s mouth, featherlight; the barest of brushes, the most subtle movement of his lips, the barely there dream of breath on Zaeed’s cheek. And then he pulls away and stands. He steps around to the end of the bed and reaches in, takes out the humidor and tucks it under his arm.

“This stays.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *peeks out from behind sofa*


	11. Only the Beginning

They start over.  
  
Slowly.  
  
Slowly.  
  
Circling around each other; a dance with breath as the only rhythm.  
  
There’s a change between them. The air has shifted; born of the knowledge that they’re on a path they both want. And as Steven had set out to woo Zaeed all those months ago, now Zaeed takes on the mantle. Even going so far to ask Kasumi her advice. Which means filling her in on the past weeks and months and the asshole thing he did.  
  
She swats the back of his head at that. Then calls his suggestion of a bouquet of flowers ‘mundane’. “Honestly, Boss? Put some brain cells into it. What does he like? What does he need?”  
  
He thinks back to the day he helped Steven put the boat up for winter and the worn wrap that Steven had grumbled over. He says, “A goddamn boat wrap is hardly romantic.”  
  
“No, but the thought behind it is. Especially when you’re going to have one custom made. In the meantime, you’re going to take him to Pragia Park for a picnic--don’t worry, I know a place that puts that stuff together, basket included. And you’re going to take him to the Thessia baseball game next weekend because they’re playing Eclipse and everyone needs to watch those assholes go down.” He’s surprised when she spits out the last words; no idea that she’s into baseball so fiercely. She shakes her head quickly after a moment, obviously relishing the idea of Thessia getting what’s coming to them. “Anyway. I’ll find the number of the deli that does the baskets. And if you don’t know how to go online and buy tickets for the game you’re an idiot and you deserve everything you don’t get. I’m your nurse and your friend, not your secretary.” She smiles cheerfully and pats him on the cheek before she leaves his office with a swing in her step.  
  
He sighs and swipes a hand down his face. He did ask, after all.  
  
~~~~~  
  
The picnic, as it happens, is rained out. So they spread a blanket out on the floor in Steven’s den and lean back against the sofa, Max’s eyes switching back and forth between them even as he lays nonchalantly at a distance. “How old is Max?” Zaeed asks. He’s no judge of dogs, never having been around one to such an extent before.  
  
Steven lays back, groaning from the meal (cold chicken and French potato salad, imported cheese, sourdough bread, grapes and strawberries and wine--white and red; they open the white and save the red for later). “He’ll be two next month.”  
  
It speaks to Steven’s training of him, Zaeed supposes. He thought the dog would be older. He says as much, meaning it as a compliment. But Steven’s face falls, inexplicable sadness shading his eyes.  
  
“Hadn’t had a dog since I was in college. Got too hard. There was no time once I got into med school. Even more so later. Had a lab then. Had to give her up.” He sighs and picks up Zaeed’s hand, examining the creases of his palm, tracing over them with his thumb. “And then time goes by, as it tends to do. After Tadius and I split, I had this urgent need for unconditional devotion,” his smile is rueful and self-deprecating, as if he’s ashamed of the need for affection. “And I had more time, since I’m not taking call anymore. I took Max to several puppy classes. He’s so trainable, it was easy really.” Steven slides his fingers over Zaeed’s palm, lacing their fingers together. “Can I ask you something?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“Why did you and Jessie never have kids? Everyone knew at work how much she liked them. And I know you have a preference for kids as patients. I’m just curious…”   
  
He takes a long drink of wine to gather his thoughts; tightens his grip on Steven’s hand. “She never wanted them. I think she liked being around them without having the mess of clean-up, if that makes any bloody sense. Wouldn’t have minded, myself. Could have gone either way. But she always had an excuse to not, so I let it drop.” He twists so he can look at Steven straight on. “Why? You ever want kids?”  
  
The man shrugs. “I don’t think it was ever going to be in the cards for me.”  
  
“Doesn’t answer my question.”  
  
“I know.” His sigh is long and heartfelt. “Maybe if I hadn’t met Tadius, had met someone else. Maybe if I were younger. Maybe if my partner wanted to. Then...yeah. I would have liked to, actually.”  
  
“Why did you stay with him so long? Tadius, I mean.” He realizes he’s the last man to judge staying in a relationship that may not be perfect, but it seems odd that Steven would have put up with his partner not being out to his family for so long and not have put an end to it sooner.  
  
“I kept hoping things would change. He’s a good man. And I loved him for all his faults.” He meets Zaeed’s gaze and there’s an acknowledgement between them. “And then before I knew it, gay marriage was legal and I knew that was something I wanted and he didn’t. Never the twain shall meet.”  
  
“So what I’m hearing is we need to have a relationship where neither one of us gets too stuck in each other’s inertia.”  
  
“How about a relationship where we talk about things and don’t take each other for granted instead?”  
  
Zaeed sighs melodramatically. “Bloody hell. You ask a lot…”  
  
“I do.” Steven grins and leans so close Zaeed can feel the warmth of his breath on his lips. “I hate to inconvenience you though—”  
  
“No. You should probably inconvenience me,” and Zaeed pulls Steven into his embrace and kisses him, slow and long so that by the time he finally takes a breath Steven’s lips are swollen and his eyes are hooded with dark desire.  
  
“You know what we haven’t had?” Steven asks.  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“Make-up sex.”  
  
Zaeed quirks an eyebrow. “Noticed that too, did you?”  
  
Steven paps him on the cheek lightly. “Smart ass.”  
  
“Think we should do something about that?”  
  
“I think I should clean this mess up,” he nods towards the leftovers on the blanket, “and you should let Max out quick and then go upstairs and take off your clothes.” He lowers his voice and whispers in his ear, “And clean yourself up…”  
  
Zaeed grins. “Sounds like you have a plan.”  
  
“Of course I do.” He trails his fingers down Zaeed’s jaw. “I’m going to wreck you.”  
  
Zaeed’s groan is involuntary. “Man of action. I like that.” He stands and pulls Steven up next to him, jerking the man against him. He kisses him again, hands on Steven’s ass to hold him tight. It’s long minutes before he lets him go, both of them half-hard and grinding into each other.   
  
“Go upstairs,” Steven murmurs in his ear. “Get on the bed. I’ll be right there.”  
  
“Don’t be long. Might take matters into my own goddamn hands.”  
  
“Don’t you dare.” He smacks him lightly on the arse and pushes him away.  
  
Zaeed gives him a long look before letting his eyes drift pointedly down to the bulge in Steven’s jeans. He winks and turns, calling Max to go outside. Once the dog is back in, he heads upstairs, pulling his shirt off as he goes. He hears Steven talk to Max, the deep rumble of his voice as he tells to the dog to lay down. Then the volume of the music he’d had on the stereo is turned up; Sarah Vaughn’s dulcet tones fill the house. He smirks and strips, dropping his clothes on the bathroom floor.  
  
Steven finds him minutes later stretched out on the bed. His eyebrows raise when he sees him and the shit-eating grin that must be covering his face as he palms himself. “Christ, Zaeed. Can’t you wait two minutes?”  
  
“Waited one minute and fifty seconds.”  
  
Steven rolls his eyes. He disappears into the bathroom and comes out a minute later with a bottle in his hands. “On your stomach.”  
  
“Now who’s eager?” But Zaeed complies, rolls into the middle of the bed, which creates a delicious sort of pressure on his erection. He watches Steven from the corner of his eye as he climbs up on the bed behind him. “Why aren’t you naked?”  
  
Steven settles on him, knees pressing into his hips on either side. He feels the soft friction of jeans rather than bare skin, but groans as Steven’s added weight presses him further into the bed. “Because this isn’t about sex. Well. Not immediately anyway.” He shifts forward. Lips press along his spine, leaving a trail of kisses down from his neck.  
  
“Coulda fooled me,” Zaeed grunts.  
  
Steven laughs softly and sits upright. There’s a ‘snick’ of a bottle cap opening and closing and then Steven’s hands on him, smoothing a musky scented oil over his back. He groans again as Steven’s hands press down, his thumbs digging into the muscles along his spine. He tuts when his fingers dig into his shoulders. “You’ve got knots on top of knots.”  
  
“Got knots on my knob, too.” He jerks his hips up in a quick thrust, but Steven doesn’t take the hint, only laughs and continues to dig almost painfully into his shoulders. He’s single-minded in his determination to work the tension of the last few weeks out of Zaeed’s muscles, so Zaeed gives in, closes his eyes and focuses on breathing as well as any red-blooded man could be expected to when the hands of his lover are roaming over his skin.  
  
One thing’s for certain: Steven Hackett is a goddamn genius with his hands in more ways than one. He works at the muscles until Zaeed is loose and drowsy from it, languid in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. He aches in a pleasant sort of pulsing way; a constant state of semi-hardness that becomes part of the dream Steven weaves with his palms and fingers. He listens to Steven breathe, the slide of hands over skin, the melodies that drift up from downstairs. He’s vaguely aware of Steven’s hardness as it occasionally rubs against him through the fabric of Steven’s jeans.  
  
At some point he can’t exactly determine, the touch of Steven’s hands on his back changes. Fingers still knead, but not as hard. Hands stroke over his skin; gentler as they smooth down, harder as they push up his spine. Thumbs curl into the small of his back, fingers splayed over to his sides in a long, slow glide up to his shoulders, continue up to his arms that are extended over his head. Steven shifts his weight, rubbing himself lightly over Zaeed’s arse before he straightens up with a heavy breath, his hands drifting back to return to his waist. Steven moves down to rest on Zaeed’s legs so he’s still pinned to the bed. There’s a ‘snick’ of the bottle cap again and then hands are kneading into the flesh of his buttocks, thumbs both suggestively ghosting along his crack.  
  
A knee presses his legs apart, quickly joined by the other when Zaeed readily spreads his legs. “Is this about sex now?” He mumbles the words, drifting on a haze of languorous lust.  
  
“This has always been about sex, _corazón_ ,” Steven says. He spreads Zaeed’s cheeks, licks his way up from his balls, tongue dipping into him briefly before continuing further to end with a kiss at the base of his spine. Fingers spread him again, a wet tongue lapping at his entrance and he moans softly at the touch.  
  
“Fuck, Steven—”  
  
The man hums, a vibration he can feel at the base of his spine as the man stiffens his tongue and prods into him. Zaeed gasps at the sensation, lifting his hips. Blood pulses into his cock as Steven continues, pushing as far in as he can, then withdrawing to lick over him in a warm lap of tongue. He doesn’t stop, moving up to place kisses along his spine, stretching out over him until his chest rests on his back and the man licks his earlobe. Zaeed groans a protest as he’s pressed into the bed, but Steven just laughs and rocks his hardness against him.  
  
“Gonna do something with that? Or just be a goddamn tease?”  
  
Steven laughs again--a low chuckle in the back of his throat that goes right to Zaeed’s balls--and pulls on his ear with gentle teeth. “Maybe I’m just going to tease.”  
  
“Bloody hell—” He tries to push up but Steven presses his weight down on purpose, laughing in his ear. They end up tussling on the bed, fairly matched in strength between Steven’s runners legs and Zaeed’s boxers arms. “C’mere, you.” Steven tries to slip away, laughing as Zaeed catches him and pulls at the zipper so he can yank down those goddamn jeans to his thighs before he manages to pin the other man with his arms around his hips and bites into the flesh over his ribs.  
  
“Ow! Fuck!”  
  
He soothes the bite with a lick of his tongue, loosening his grip to move lower, nipping lightly along his stomach and hips. Steven gasps and bucks slightly as Zaeed’s hand travels up between his thighs, fingertips playing lightly over skin. Steven kicks away the jeans, takes Zaeed’s hand and pointedly moves it to his pulsing hardness barely held back by his boxers.  
  
“I want your mouth on me.”  
  
Zaeed has half a mind to protest and tease back, but it’s honestly all he’s been thinking about and he can’t come up with the desire to do anything else. He tugs at the waistband of his boxers so that Steven’s hardness stands at attention at eye level and it’s just a short movement to do as he asks, licking up from the base, inhaling the scent of him, tasting the drop that glistens at the tip. Steven moans softly when Zaeed takes him all the way in and then pulls off and coughs. He’d been out of practice while he was married to Jessie. But giving head, he’s found, is like riding that proverbial bike. Easy to find his balance all over again.  
  
And fuck. The bitter, salty taste of him drives him back. Not to mention the noises he can wring out of the other man; or the way Steven grabs hold of the sheets, or how his fingers card through Zaeed’s hair and hold him; or the shudders that wrack through Steven’s body when he comes, the loud moans, the louder swears, Zaeed’s name on his lips.  
  
But not today. Not yet, anyway. They have time to make it last so he doesn’t put any force behind it, teases with his tongue and lips while Steven sighs and mutters under his breath.  
  
“What was that?”  
  
“You’re too good at that.” Steven tugs at him to get him to move up so he does, crawling over him and pulling up his shirt as he goes. He’s entranced by blue eyes, his expanse of skin and chest hair. He kisses his neck, sucking hard and biting into the flesh until Steven bucks up, pulling at his hair to get him to stop. He looks down at him and grins while his heart thuds in his chest, feeling the body beneath him, their cocks sliding along each other. Steven rolls them, reciprocating the hickey on Zaeed’s neck so that Zaeed squirms and moans and wraps a leg around Steven’s, his hands on his arse to hold the man down on him.  
  
“Want you in me,” Zaeed says, flexes his grasp on Steven’s buttocks.  
  
Steven reaches for the bedside table, yanking off his shirt in a swift jerk before he opens the drawer to pull out lube. “Not gonna argue,” he breathes with a grin. Steven slides back over him, licks at the hardened peak of his nipple until Zaeed is writhing, feverish for the other man.  
  
They fit together well: not just their bodies, but also their minds. There’s a give and take he’d never had with Jessie. Steven doesn’t demand to be worshiped so much as respected and Zaeed is finding he craves him in a way he never had with her. He could put it down to the newness of the thing; or to being older. Steven doesn’t run hot and cold the way Jessie had. He’s steady glowing embers; even-keeled. But for that, his passion doesn’t burn any less, and perhaps burns all the brighter when stoked. For all of Jessie’s wildness, he’s surprised to find Steven’s steadiness is a balm to his aching soul. Surprised even more that he’s having a hard time envisioning a future life without him.  
  
He’s not sure what that means or what it looks like, doesn’t really care to explore the idea further. Especially as Steven presses into him, whispers at him to open his eyes and look at him. His heart races when they locks eyes, sea blues searching his as something passes in the air between them; something he doesn’t want voiced--not just yet. So he kisses him, silences the words so nearly on Steven’s lips, responding with his own passion, his own need, his own feelings unsaid. He puts it in the kiss, in the way he holds Steven, in the cry as he comes, in the laugh he shares with him as Steven pants in his ear and whispers his name.  
  
There are words he could say. He squashes them down. Someday. Not just yet. But someday.  
  
Maybe someday soon.  
  
~~~~~  
  
He gives up his apartment in October. Everything that had been in the second bedroom he’d either reincorporated into his life or donated. One afternoon he had borrowed Steven’s car (no way in hell could he get it all in his), driven out to Lucy’s mother’s house and delivered five large boxes of art supplies, plus a standing easel and a small drafting table that he’d stayed to help reassemble in her tiny, now crowded room. The entire house was postage stamp sized, but clean and tidy. Although if that was just for his sake, he couldn’t have said. He had no pang of regret as he drove away; confident that Lucy would make good use of everything.  
  
The movers take care of everything, but Steven insists on hand-carrying the toaster. It sits on the backseat next to Max. He pulls off with a grin and a wink and Zaeed is convinced the man thinks the toaster is part of the relationship.  
  
Zaeed follows the three of them home.  
  
~~~~~  
  
Anymore, she comes to him at night; dancing on the edge of his dreams and then breezing away. As if she were coming to make sure he’s still there, heart still beating. He doesn’t remember the dreams. Only that he wakes with the scent of her in his nostrils before she’s gone and he’s rolling on the bed, fingers searching for Steven’s warmth.  
  
But this night he wakes in a jerk to the smell of salt and sand and her laugh in his ear. He lays awake for a while, unable to recapture sleep. He gives up the entire idea at a certain point, slipping quietly from the bed and the warmth of Steven’s body pressed up against him He pads downstairs in the pre-dawn darkness in sweats and a t-shirt with Max at his heels.  
  
He lets the dog outside, stands at the open door breathing in the cool night air. Summer’s blazing heat and humidity are long gone, replaced by the brisk winds of autumn. Small waves lap at the lake's shore. He watches Max sniff at the corners of the house, marking his territory. A sound in the brush draws the dog’s attention and he waits and watches for a minute until nothing further happens and he returns to Zaeed’s side.  
  
They make their way to the dining room where Jessie’s portfolios and boxes of artwork sit on the floor next to the table, left there because they had nowhere else to go. He snaps on the light and clears the table, slides paintings out of the largest of the folders. He studies each one, flips it over carefully to find the next one waiting. He recognizes most of them--landscapes of places they’d been, studies of sculpture, some with fine details, some haphazard and careless. Most are watercolors, but some are chalk or pencil. She preferred watercolor above all else; loved the blurry edges and the washed colors, the feel of the stiff paper under her fingers. With a few exceptions none contain people, only things and places as if she had been able to erase everyone from existence, create an empty world where she was the only voyeur.  
  
He sets a few paintings aside and returns the stack to the portfolio, opens another and another, the room quiet but for the slip-slide of paper, the soft snores of the dog at his feet. One paper portfolio that she’d probably had during college has water stains down the outside and when he opens it he finds the papers inside are brittle and stuck together in a mass. He tries to separate a few, but they tear and crumble and he gives up, shuts them back up in the file.  
  
Footsteps on the stairs and a whine from Max tell him Steven is awake. Warm arms wrap around him and he leans back into the hard body. Steven presses a kiss to his neck, gently biting at his tattoo. “How long have you been up?”  
  
“A while. Couldn’t sleep.  
  
“You could have gotten me up.”  
  
“No sense in both of us being exhausted fools.”  
  
The man hums into his skin as if pretending to see sense. “You want coffee?”  
  
“Fuck, yes.”  
  
He gets a smack on his arse for that, turns and grins and gets a morning kiss too, quick and light. His eyes follow Steven out the door, admiring the view of the curved spine down his naked back, the lightweight pajama bottoms that cover his behind. He sighs and turns back to the artwork. He pulls sketchbooks out of a box and organizes them in a pile, flips through one that looks like one she’d had in college: the style of drawing is different, the lines less sure; some have grades of A’s or B’s written in red on the back. Some of the people she drew studies of he recognizes from pictures: her roommates mostly, a boyfriend she’d had at the time. There are sketches of buildings that look academic, studies of a chair in a corner of a room, glass jars, fruit, hands and fingers and feet and eyes. The book is about three-quarters full and he sets it aside just as Steven returns with two mugs.  
  
“What are these?” Steven nods at the small pile of watercolors and sketches that he’d set aside.  
  
“Keeping those. Might see about framing a few.”  
  
“Keeping?” The man fingers through them, pulling out one in particular of the beach house. “What are you doing with the rest?”  
  
“Thought I’d send them to her parents. They haven’t seen much of it. Maybe a few things here and there, but—” He lets the thought trail off, moves to stand behind Steven as the man admires the watercolor.  
  
She’d sat just north of the house and had captured the water, the beach, part of the house surrounded by trees. He can almost hear the waves, the call of birds, smell the sand and salt in the air. She'd managed to capture the color of the waves--the deep blues and greens, the foam on each crest--and the shimmer of a setting sun’s shadow between the trees on the sand. It feels lonely and deserted.  
  
“This is magnificent,” Steven says. “Is this your house in Costa Rica?”  
  
“Yeah.” He studies it a moment longer. “She always said she could never get the water right. Don’t know what the hell she was talking about. Looks perfect to me. But I guess...what the hell do I know?”  
  
Steven smiles and peers closer, points to a hammock suspended between two trees just off the patio. There’s an arm, barely discernable, extended out over the edge, relaxed as if the owner is sleeping. “That you?”  
  
Zaeed looks closer as well. “Huh. Must be. Never realized.” They stand together for another minute, admiring the painting. “Not sure what to do with the place,” Zaeed says. Not what he had intended to say at all.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
He shrugs. “Kinda...left it. As is. After she...I couldn’t think about it for a while. Didn’t want to. So it’s just sitting down there. Should really just put it on the market at some point.”  
  
“You’d sell it?”  
  
“Wouldn’t you?”  
  
Steven shrugs and sets the painting down with the others. “Depends, I guess.” He leans close to press his lips on Zaeed’s cheek before walking around him to examine the sketchbooks. There are several boxes full with various sizes of books inside. “May I?”  
  
Zaeed nods and watches him pull one of the notebook sized pads from a box. It’s the same as many of the others: black cover and wire binding. She carried one with her wherever she went. Steven’s eyebrows raise as he flips through it at first quickly, but then he slows and starts over, going back from the beginning, turning each page only after studying it thoughtfully.   
  
“What is it?” Zaeed asks. He’d never been through much of her sketchbooks, considered them her private affair. Occasionally he’d watch over her shoulder as she drew, usually when they were on vacation somewhere and she’d slowly begin to form the view in front of her into a picture on the page. It awed him as he watched her work.  
  
“You.” Steven flips the book to show him a drawing of Zaeed in profile, then turns the page to show another and then another. He steps closer and watches a younger version of himself go by on page after page. One stands out among them: Zaeed sleeping on his back, a hand tossed over his head, the other resting on his chest. He’s nude but for a sheet that barely covers his feet. She’d taken her time with the drawing, the details are exact from the lines between his eyebrows to the perfect imitation of his tattoos. He wonders how long she had sat by their bed and traced the lines of his body: his bent knee, his flaccid penis, the hair on his chest, his scarred face.  
  
“Christ, you’re beautiful,” Steven says, his voice soft and reverent.  
  
Zaeed scoffs. “Hardly. And that was years ago.”  
  
“Just let me be the judge of that.” The man gives him an appreciative glance before flipping the page and they’re in Thailand. His and Jessie’s one and only trip they took there is unmistakable from the architecture alone. There are several unfinished pictures that she’d started, the lines hard and angry. He remembers she would take her sketchbook out and pointedly ignore him, her sighs heavy. And then she’d snap the book shut and stand and glare at him and they’d be back at it--fighting to beat the band. It had been a horrible vacation.  
  
“That’s not you,” Steven has moved past Thailand. There’s another male body on the page, but the build is wrong, the hair is wrong. He’s athletic and powerful in his nakedness. There are pages and pages of him. “Oh,” he breathes out the word and it dawns on Zaeed who that is exactly.  
  
Zaeed’s heart stops. For a moment, a brief flash of jealousy and anger churns his guts. He inhales a deep breath, and then another. What’s done is done. He takes the book, replaces it back in the box. “C’mon. I’ll make you breakfast.”  
  
~~~~~  
  
They linger over empty plates, sitting at the table and talking of inconsequential things, knees knocking together.  
  
“Not going running?” Zaeed asks, because Steven usually goes first thing in the morning, sometimes trying to coax Zaeed to tag along with him. Steven had been training with Coates and Bailey and Alenko for a half-marathon since August--an idea that has zero appeal to Zaeed--and had continued to train for something called a ‘Turkey Trot’ at Thanksgiving.  
  
“I'll go later. I wanted to spend the morning with you.” Steven grins and finishes off the last of his coffee.  
  
His heart skips a beat: from the look in the other man's eye, from the words, from the image that's sprung up in his head. Now this is an idea he can get behind. “Have something in mind?”  
  
“I do, in fact.” Steven stands and clears dishes from the table so Zaeed does the same, following him into the kitchen to deposit glasses and mugs carefully before sliding his hands down the man’s sides as he stands with his back to him at the sink. He presses up against him, pinning him to the counter, bites at the corner of his neck until Steven groans. His hands are frozen, caught midway with the water running over a plate. In a sudden move he shuts off the water and twists, the plate landing in the sink with a thud. “You’re going to be the death of me,” Steven says before he captures Zaeed’s jaw with a wet hand, kisses him hard.  
  
Zaeed laughs, kissing him back, his grip tight on Steven’s hips. The other man twists in his arms and he can feel the warmth of his chest through his shirt, hard arms holding him with a force that thrills Zaeed not just a little. Steven laughs through the kiss as he feels himself harden quickly. He can’t be arsed to be embarrassed at how quickly he’s excited by this man.  
  
~~~~~  
  
It’s too late in the year to buy a motorcycle, but he does it anyway. He gets a good deal on it; a black and chrome Indian Chief that’s full of attitude. He buys two new leather jackets and gloves. Plus a set of bluetooth helmets that he presents to Steven’s appalled face.  
  
“Those look like motorcycle helmets.”  
  
“Got it in one.”  
  
“You can’t be serious.”  
  
“As a heart attack.” He holds Steven’s out to him, shows him how they’re linked together. And then informs him the motorcycle is being delivered as they speak.  
  
“Do you even have a license for that?” Steven’s voice raises with no small amount of alarm. So Zaeed stops. He’d never thought to ask if it would be something Steven would be interested in. Rather he’d presumed.  
  
His fault. Bad communication.  
  
“Yeah. I do. And I’m sorry—”  
  
“As an ortho surgeon you know how dangerous these things are.”  
  
“And as a man, I know how goddamn fun they are. Look, got rid of mine after Jessie died. But I kinda miss it. Just...go with me once. If you don’t like it, that’s fine. Promise I won’t go on the interstate.”  
  
Steven crosses his arms over his chest. “I’ve never actually ridden a motorcycle.”  
  
“It’s easy. I’ll give you the rundown. Just make sure your will is up to date first.”  
  
“Damnit, Zaeed. Don’t even—”  
  
Zaeed grins. “Joke.”  
  
“It’s not really. How’s _your_ will, since we’re on the topic.”  
  
He nods. “Giving everything to Max.”  
  
“You’re such an ass.”  
  
~~~~~  
  
They pick a Saturday in late October to drive to Nos Astra; a small tourist town at the northern shore of Lake Despoina. The sun is warm, but the air is brisk and he’s glad for Steven’s warmth at his back, even through the layers of leather. His hands grip his waist; tightly at first, but less so as he becomes more comfortable. The bike hums underneath them and they mostly ride in silence once Steven figures out how to lean into the turns and where to put his feet. The road follows the bends of the lake, glimmering brightly through half-barren trees.  
  
Zaeed keeps their speed under the limit for a while, letting Steven get used to the feel. But eventually Steven says, “Can’t this thing go any faster?” and Zaeed laughs and opens her up. Steven never lets go of his waist.  
  
They find a place for lunch on the main street in town, bustling with other tourists who’re also taking advantage of the nice day. It’s a small table and they sit nearly nose to nose, their knees warm against each other. Steven studies him for a long moment before he says, “So what’s up with you? You’re awfully quiet.”  
  
Zaeed shrugs. He’s been in his own head all morning, but didn’t realize Steven would have picked up on it. There’s something that’s been on his mind for a while now, something he wants--needs to say. But he’s stuck with not knowing how to say it.  
  
Or when to say it.  
  
“Are you sure you’re okay with this? With us—”  
  
“Yeah,” he’s quick to say. “Fuck yeah.” He reaches over the table and covers Steven’s hand with his own, giving it a quick squeeze before pulling back. “No worries, Steven. Truly.”  
  
“Okay.” Steven sighs, but his eyes are still concerned. Then their food is brought out and they lose themselves in burgers and fries and Zaeed distracts him with a story of how, when he was a kid, he’d save up all his pennies so he’d have enough to go to the chip shop and buy a deep fried Mars bar. And then he goes into great detail: the crunchy breading, the melted chocolate, the gooey caramel.  
  
Steven’s eyes grow round at the thought. “Where can we get one of those?”  
  
They wander Main Street, poking through the antique shops. Zaeed finds a couple books, but they don’t buy much since they’re on the bike. From the corner of his eye, he watches Steven buy a silver cigar cutter that he sticks in his coat pocket once purchased and doesn’t say any more about. Zaeed just fixes his attention back on the book he’s opened and ponders Christmas presents. Steven bumps shoulders with him. “Want some coffee?”  
  
He snaps the book shut and replaces it on the shelf. “Yeah.”  
  
His heart is nearly bursting out of his chest.  
  
It’s when they’re halfway home, the late afternoon sun barely keeping them warm as they ride, that he decides perhaps there is no perfect time or place. Perhaps he needs to just say it. Because life is far too short and uncertain. And it’s not like he doesn’t know the feeling is reciprocated. Steven has never said the words again, but he can’t hide it from him. It’s in everything he does; every look he gives Zaeed, every brush of his fingers, every kiss.   
  
So he swallows. And his palms sweat more than a little. He keeps his attention on the road in front of them, half grateful that Steven isn’t looking at him. But he says, “Hey. Can I...there’s something I want to tell you.”  
  
“Okay.” Steven’s voice in his ear is soft. His fingers flex on his waist, gripping him tighter.  
  
“Look. I know I’m an ass. I know I have issues. And they’ll probably put you up for goddamn sainthood for putting up with me.” He stops himself, wary of going off tangent. “I just think you should know.” He swallows again, his heart racing with what he’s about to say. “I love you. I’ve loved you since...I don’t know when. I can’t remember not knowing.” It’s more a whisper than anything and if Steven’s legs hadn’t tightened against his hips Zaeed’s not sure the man even heard him over the noise of the road and the engine. Steven is quiet for so long. Longer than seems appropriate, although in his current state of mind he’s not sure he’s the right person to judge the passage of time. He opens his mouth to say something--anything to fill the void, but then—  
  
“Pull over.”  
  
“What? Did you—”  
  
“Pull this bike off the road. Now.” There’s a hard edge to Steven’s words, so he does as he’s asked, slowing the bike and guiding it onto the gravel that lines the road. Steven hops off before he has the kickstand down, pulling off his helmet and pointing at Zaeed. “You fucking bastard. Take that helmet off.”  
  
Confusion rolls in his gut, but he takes off the helmet and then Steven is on him, his fingers tight on his face, kissing him hard by the side of the road while Zaeed straddles the bike. “Fuck you,” Steven says. And kisses him harder, teeth banging together, tongue desperate against his own. Zaeed grabs him by the leather jacket and holds on. It’s all he can do without losing his balance and risking the bike going over. He’s not sure how long the kiss lasts; vaguely aware of occasional cars going past, the sunlight on his cheek, the creak of leather. When Steven finally ends the kiss, both their breaths are heavy with desire.  
  
Steven still holds his face in his hands, gently rests his forehead on his. “Took you long enough.”  
  
“I know. Bloody hell. I’m sorry—”  
  
“Tell me again. Tell me to my face, you goddamn coward.”  
  
Fuck. He is a coward. About this. About how he feels. About how much he loves Steven and how he’s barely managed to admit it to himself.  
  
So he says it again. “Love you, Steven. I love you.” It’s easier. The words don’t twist his tongue like they had the first time.  
  
Steven kisses him again. Lighter, but with no less longing or passion. “Goddamnit, I love you,” he says, a breathless whisper against his lips. “I have no idea why. You drive me insane. And yet...I can’t image life without you. That first day, when you slept in my bed and you came downstairs and Max didn’t let you go two steps, I...I was hoping for this. I wanted this. Us.” Steven’s hand drifts down to his chest, resting just over Zaeed’s heart. “I can’t quite believe…”  
  
“You have the patience of a bloody saint. Hanging around while I get my shit together.”  
  
“Some things are worth it. _You’re_ worth it.” Steven punctuates that with a light kiss, brushing over his lips several times.  
  
“Never thought I’d get a goddamn second chance at all this. Pretty much figured it was all over for me.”  
  
“I’m so happy it’s not. You have no idea...”  
  
“I have a guess.”  
  
Steven smirks, kisses him several times again, quick and light. “Any guess what I’m thinking right now?” His voice dips lower, suggestive. And even if Zaeed hadn’t had an idea before (he had), he has a pretty good idea now.  
  
“Something about a bed and a lack of clothes?”  
  
“If we make it as far as the bed, then yes.”  
  
Zaeed laughs, wraps his arms around Steven in a bear hug. He takes a minute to just enjoy the moment: the cool, crisp air; the man in his arms who’s kissing his neck; the wail of a car horn as it passes them on the road. He silently rejoices at the reality that his life has become. Even after the heartbreak of Jessie’s death, the burden of her ghost in his thoughts. He feels a moment of guilt at his happiness, lets it sit for a moment before he gently pushes it away. He remembers her words.   
  
It’s time to go after what he wants.  
  
Steven whispers in his ear, “You should take me home, _mi amor_.” Then he pulls away, quirking an eyebrow.  
  
Home. It sounds good and right. It sounds like where he wants to be. “Get on, love.”  
  
 _Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe it was sometime in February last year when potionsmaster starting talking about writing her doctor au for MEBB and I blabbed something about "Please make Zaeed be a kids' doctor and please make him be sad that his wife is dead and please make him fall in love with Hackett." And she said "Nope. Do it yourself." So...I did. I hope I did these two justice. It was harder than I thought to keep Zaeed especially from going out of character. But as the great bagog said, they're automatically ooc in an au anyway. So I just embraced it and ran with it.
> 
> I had so much help from various people along the way while writing this fic. It would take an incredibly long Oscar-type speech to thank all of them. So I'll just say an all encompassing Thank You to all you helpers and readers and commenters and kudos-ers. I've loved writing this story and I hope you've enjoyed reading it.
> 
> Feel free to find me on [ Tumblr](http://threewhiskeylunch.tumblr.com/).

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!


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